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AFTERMATH. 


BY 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


BOSTON : 
JAMES   R.  OSGOOD   AND  COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 
1875. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873, 

BY   HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


O'CNTENTS. 
i. 

TALES   OF   A  WAYSIDE   INN.. 

^  PAGE 

PRELUDE      1 

THE  SPANISH  JEW'S  TALE. 

AZRAEL  6 

INTERLUDE 10 

THE  POET'S  TALE. 

CHARLEMAGNE       .        .        .     *  .        .                .  13 

INTERLUDE       ...                 ....  17 

THE  STUDENT'S  TALE. 

EMMA  AND  EGINHARD  ......  21 

INTERLUDE 33 

THE  THEOLOGIAN'S  TALE. 

ELIZABETH ,  .  38 

INTERLUDE 63 

THE  SICILIAN'S  TALE. 

THE  MONK  OF  CASAL-MAGGIORE  .  .  .  .66 

INTERLUDE 84 

THE  SPANISH  JEW'S  SECOND  TALE. 

SCANDERBEG    ........  86 

INTERLUDE  ....  96 


903421 


IV  CONTENTS. 

THE  MUSICIAN'S  TALK. 

THE  MOTHER'S  GHOST 101 

INTERLUDE 107 

THE  LANDLORD'S  TALE. 

THE  RHYME  WF  SIR  CHRISTOPHER  .  .  .110 
FINALE 119 


II. 

BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE. 

FATA  MORGANA 125 

THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER 127 

THE  MEETING 130 

Vox  POPULI     .        .  •»     .        .        .        .        .        .         130 

THE  CASTLE-BUILDER 133 

CHANGED 135 

THE  CHALLENGE  .        .        .        .  t    .        .        .        .136 

THE  BROOK  AND  THE  WAVE 130 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  CANCIONEROS       .        .       .         .140 
AFTERMATH      .        .  144 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


PAKT  THIRD. 


PRELUDE. 

THE  evening  came  ;  the  golden  vane 
A  moment  in  the  sunset  glanced, 
Then  darkened,  and  then  gleamed  again, 
As  from  the  east  the  moon  advanced 
And  touched  it  with  a  softer  light ; 
While  underneath,  with  flowing  mane, 
Upon  the  sign  the  Red  Horse  pranced, 
And  galloped  forth  into  the  night. 

But  brighter  than  the  afternoon 
That  followed  the  dark  day  of  rain, 
And  brighter  than  the  golden  vane 
That  glistened  in  the  rising  moon, 
Within  the  ruddy  firelight  gleamed  ; 
i 


2  TALES    OF   A   AVAYSIDE    INN. 

And  every  separate  window-pane, 
Backed  by  the  outer  darkness,  showed 
A  mirror,  where  the  flamelcts  gleamed 
And  flickered  to  and  fro,  .and  seemed 
A  bonfire  lighted  in  the  road. 

Amid  the  hospitable  glow, 
Like  an  old  actor  on  the  stage, 
With  the  uncertain  voice  of  age, 
The  singing  chimney  chanted  low 
The  homely  songs  of  long  ago. 

The  voice  that  Ossian  heard  of  yore, 
When  midnight  winds  were  in  his  hall ; 
A  ghostly  and  appealing  call, 
A  sound  of  days  that  are  no  more ! 
And  dark  as  Ossian  sat  the  Jew, 
And  listened  to  the  sound,  and  knew 
The  passing  of  the  airy  hosts, 
The  gray  and  misty  cloud  of  ghosts 


PRELUDE. 


In  their  interminable  flight ; 

And  listening  muttered  in  his  beard, 

With  accent  indistinct  and  weird, 

"  Who  are  ye,  children  of  the  Night  ?  " 

Beholding  his  mysterious  face, 
"  Tell  me,"  the  gay  Sicilian  said, 
"  Why  was  it  that  in  breaking  bread 
At  supper,  you  bent  down  your  head 
And,  musing,  paused  a  little  space, 
As  one  who  says  a  silent  grace  ?  " 

The  Jew  replied,  with  solemn  air, 
"  I  said  the  Manichaean's  prayer.  „ 

It  was  his  faith,  —  perhaps  is  mine, — 
That  life  in  all  its  forms  is  one, 
And  that  its  secret  conduits  run 
Unseen,  but  in  unbroken  line, 
From  the  great  fountain-head  divine 
Through  man  and  beast,  through  grain    and 
grass. 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INX. 

Howe'er  we  struggle,  strive,  and  cry, 
From  death  there  can  be  no  escape, 
And  no  escape  from  life,  alas ! 
Because  we  cannot  die,  but  pass 
From  one  into  another  shape : 
It  is  but  into  life  we  die. 

"  Therefore  the  Manichaean  said 
This  simple  prayer  on  breaking  bread, 
Lest  he  with  hasty  hand  or  knife 
Might  wound  the  incarcerated  life, 
The  soul  in  things  that  we  call  dead : 
'  I  did  not  reap  thee,  did  not  bind  thee, 
I  did  not  thrash  thee,  did  not  grind  thee, 
Nor  did  I  in  the  oven  bake  thee ! 
It  was  not  I,  it  was  another 
Did  these  things  unto  thee,  0  brother ; 
I  only  have  thee,  hold  thee,  break  thee !  ' 

"  That  birds  have  souls  I  can  concede," 


PRELUDE. 

The  poet  cried,  with  glowing  cheeks  ; 
u  The  flocks  that  from  their  beds  of  reed 
Uprising  north  or  southward  fly, 
And  flying  write  upon  the  sky 
The  biforked  letter  of  the  Greeks, 
As  hath  been  said  by  Rueellai : 
All  birds  that  sing  or  chirp  or  cry, 
Even  those  migratory  bands, 
The  minor  poets  of  the  air. 
The  plover,  peep,  and  sanderling, 
That  hardly  can  be  said  to  sing, 
But  pipe  along  the  barren  sands,  — 
All  these  have  sonls  akin  to  onrs  ; 
So  hath  the  lovely  race  of  flowers  : 
Thus  much  I  grant,  but  nothing  more. 
The  rusty  hinges  of  a  door 
Are  not  alive  because  they  creak ; 
This  chimney,  with  its  dreary  roar, 
These  rattling  windows,  do  not  speak !  " 
"*  To  me  they  speak,"  the  Jew  replied ; 


6  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

"  And  in  the  sounds  that  sink  and  soar, 

I  hear  the  voices  of  a  tide 

That  breaks  upon  an  unknown  shore !  " 

Here  the  Sicilian  interfered  : 
"'  That  was  your  dream,  then,  as  you  dozed 
A  moment  since,  with  eyes  half-closed, 
And  murmured  something  in  your  beard." 
The  Hebrew  smiled,  and  answered,  "  Nay ; 
Not  that,  but  something  very  near ; 
Like,  and  yet  not  the  same,  may  seem 
The  vision  of  my  waking  dream ; 
Before  it  wholly  dies  away, 
Listen  to  me,  and  you  shall  hear." 


THE  SPANISH  JEWS   TALE. 

AZEAEL. 

KIXG  SOLOMON,  before  his  palace  gate 
At  evening,  on  the  pavement  tessellate 
Was  walking  with  a  stranger  from  the  East, 
Arrayed  in  rich  attire  as  for  a  feast, 
The  mighty  Runjeet-Sing,  a  learned  man, 
And  Rajah  of  the  realms  of  Hindostan. 
And  as  they  walked  the  guest  became  aware 
Of  a  white  figure  in  the  twilight  air, 
Gazing  intent,  as  one  who  with  surprise 
His  form  and  features  seemed  to  recognize  ; 
And  in  a  whisper  to  the  king  he  said : 
"  What  is  yon  shape,  that,  pallid  as  the  dead, 
Is  watching  me,  as  if  he  sought  to  trace 
In  the  dim  light  the  features  of  my  face  ?  " 


8  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

The  king  looked,  and  replied :  "  I  know  him  well ; 
It  is  the  Angel  men  call  Azrael, 
'T  is  the  Death  Angel ;  what  hast  thou  to  fear?  " 
And  the  guest  answered  :  "  Lest  he  should  come 

near, 

And  speak  to  me,  and  take  away  my  breath  ! 
Save  me  from  Azrael,  save  me  from  death ! 
0  king,  that  hast  dominion  o'er  the  wind, 
Bid  it  arise  and  bear  me  hence  to  Ind." 

The  king  gazed  upward  at  the  cloudless  sky, 
Whispered  a  word,  and  raised  his  hand  on  high, 
And  lo !  the  signet-ring  of  chrysoprase 
On  his  uplifted  finger  seemed  to  blaze 
With  hidden  fire,  and  rushing  from  the  west 
There  came  a  mighty  wind,  and  seized  the  guest 
And  lifted  him  from  earth,  and  on  they  passed, 
His  shining  garments  streaming  in  the  blast, 
A  silken  banner  o'er  the  walls  upreared, 
A  purple  cloud,  that  gleamed  and  disappeared. 


AZRAEL.  9 

Then  said  the  Angel,  smiling :  "  If  this  man 
Be  Rajah  Runjeet-Sing  of  Hindostan, 
Thou  hast  done  well  in  listening  to  his  prayer ; 
I  was  upon  my  way  to  seek  him  there." 


INTEKLUDE. 

<;  0  EDREHI,  forbear  to-night 
Your  ghostly  legends  of  affright, 
And  let  the  Talmud  rest  in  peace ; 
Spare  us  your  dismal  tales  of  death 
That  almost  take  away  one's  breath ; 
So  doing,  may  your  tribe  increase." 

Thus  the  Sicilian  said ;  then  went 
And  on  the  spinet's  rattling  keys 
Played  Marianina,  like  a  breeze 
From  Naples  and  the  Southern  seas, 
That  brings  us  the  delicious  scent 
Of  citron  and  of  orange  trees, 


INTERLUDE.  11 

And  memories  of  soft  days  of  ease 
At  Capri  and  Amalfi  spent. 

"  Not  so,"  the  eager  Poet  said ; 

"  At  least,  not  so  before  I  tell 

The  story  of  my  Azrael, 

An  angel  mortal  as  ourselves, 

Which  in  an  ancient  tome  I  found 

Upon  a  convent's  dusty  shelves, 

Chained  with  an  iron  chain,  and  bound 

In  parchment,  and  with  clasps  of  brass, 

Lest  from  its  prison,  some  dark  day, 

It  might  be  stolen  or  steal  away, 

While  the  good  friars  were  singing  mass. 

"  It  is  a  tale  of  Charlemagne, 
When  like  a  thunder-cloud,  that  lowers 
And  sweeps  from  mountain-crest  to  coast, 
With  lightning  flaming  through  its  showers, 


12  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

He  swept  across  the  Lombard  plain, 
Beleaguering  with  his  warlike  train 
Pavia,  the  country's  pride  and  boast, 
The  City  of  the  Hundred  Towers." 

Thus  heralded  the  tale  began, 
And  thus  in  sober  measure  ran. 


THE    POET'S    TALE. 

CHAELEMAGXE. 

OLGER  the  Dane  and  Desiderio, 
King  of  the  Lombards,  on  a  lofty  tower 
Stood  gazing  northward  o'er  the  rolling  plains, 
League  after  league  of  harvests,  to  the  foot 
Of  the  snow-crested  Alps,  and  saw  approach 
A  mighty  army,  thronging  all  the  roads 
That  led  into  the  city.     And  the  King 
Said  unto  Olger,  who  had  passed  his  youth 
As  hostage  at  the  court  of  France,  and  knew 
The  Emperor's  form  and  face :  "  Is  Charlemagne 
Among  that  host?"     And  Olger   answered: 
"  No." 

And  still  the  innumerable  multitude 

Flowed  onward  and  increased,  until  the  King 


14  TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

Cried  in  amazement :  "  Surely  Charlemagne 
Is  coming  in  the  midst  of  all  these  knights  !  " 
And  Olger  answered  slowly  :  "  No  ;  not  yet ; 
He  will  not  come  so  soon."     Then  much  dis 
turbed 

King  Desiderio  asked :  "  What  shall  we  do, 
If  he  approach  with  a  still  greater  army  ?  " 
And  Olger  answered :  "  When  he  shall  appear, 
You  will  behold  what  manner  of  man  he  is  ; 
But  what  will  then  befall  us  I  know  not." 

Then  came  the  guard  that  never  knew  repose, 
The  Paladins  of  France  ;  and  at  the  sight 
The  Lombard  King  o'ercome  with  terror  cried : 
"  This  must  be  Charlemagne  !  "  and  as  before 
Did  Olger  answer :  "  No  ;  not  yet,  not  yet." 

V 

And  then  appeared  in  panoply  complete 
The  Bishops  and  the  Abbots  and  the  Priests 
Of  the  imperial  chapel,  and  the  Counts ; 


CHAKLEMAGJSTE.  15 

% 

And  Dcsiderio  could  no  more  endure 

The  light  of  day,  nor  yet  encounter  death, 

But  sobbed  aloud  and  said  :  "  Let  us  go  down 

And  hide  us  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 

Far  from  the  sight  and  anger  of  a  foe 

So  terrible  as  this  !  "     And  Olger  said : 

"  When  you  behold  the  harvests  in  the  fields 

Shaking  with  fear,  the  Po  and  the  Ticino 

Lashing  the  city  walls  with  iron  waves, 

Then  may  you  know  that  Charlemagne  is  come." 

And  even  as  he  spake,  in  the  northwest, 

Lo  !  there  uprose  a  black  and  threatening  cloud, 

Out  of  whose  bosom  flashed  the  light  of  arms 

Upon  the  people  pent  up  in  the  city ; 

A  light  more  terrible  than  any  darkness ; 

And  Charlemagne  appeared  ;  —  a  Man  of  Iron ! 

His  helmet  was  of  iron,  and  his  gloves 

Of  iron,  arid  his  breastplate  and  his  greaves 

And  tasscts  were  of  iron,  and  his  shield- 


16  TALES   OF   A   WAYSIJDE   INN. 

In  "liis  left  hand  he  held  an  iron  spear, 

In  his  right  hand  his  sword  invincible. 

The  horse  he  rode  on  had  the  strength  of  iron, 

And  color  of  iron.     All  who  went  before  him, 

Beside  him  and  behind  him,-  his  whole  host, 

Were  armed  with  iron,  and  their  hearts  within 

them 

Were  stronger  than  the  armor  that  they  wore. 
The  fields  and  all  the  roads  were  filled  with  iron, 
And  points  of  iron  glistened  in  the  sun 
And  shed  a  terror  through  the  city  streets. 

This  at  a  single  glance  Olger  the  Uane 
Saw  from  the  tower,  and  turning  to  the  King 
Exclaimed  in  haste  :  "  Behold !  this  is  the  man 
You  looked  for  with  such  eagerness  !  "  and  then 
Fell  as  one  dead  at  Desiderio's  feet. 


INTERLUDE. 

WELL  pleased  all  listened  to  the  tale, 
That  drew,  the  Student  said,  its  pith 
And  marrow  from  the  ancient  myth 
Of  some  one  with  an  iron  flail ; 
Or  that  portentous  Man  of  Brass 
HephaBstus  made  in  days  of  yore, 
Who  stalked  about  the  Cretan  shore, 
And  saw  the  ships  appear  and  pass, 
And  threw  stones  at  the  Argonauts, 
Being  filled  with  indiscriminate  ire 
That  tangled  and  perplexed  his  thoughts 
But,  like  a  hospitable  host, 
When  strangers  landed  on  the  coast, 
•Heated  himself  red-hot  with  fire, 


18  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

And  hugged  them  in  his  arms,  and  pressed 
Their  bodies  to  his  burning  breast. 

The  Poet  answered  :  "No,  not  thus 

The  legend  rose  ;  it  sprang  at  first 

Out  of  the  hunger  and  the  thirst 

In  all  men  for  the  marvellous. 

And  thus  it  filled  and  satisfied 

The  imagination  of  mankind, 

And  this  ideal  to  the  mind 

Was  truer  than  historic  fact. 

Fancy  enlarged  and  multiplied 

The  terrors  of  the  awful  name 

Of  Charlemagne,  till  he  became 

Armipotent  in  every  act, 

And,  clothed  in  mystery,  appeared 

Not  what  men  saw,  but  what  they  feared. 

Besides,  unless  my  memory  fail, 

Your  some  one  with  an  iron  flail 

Is  not  an  ancient  myth  at  all, 


INTERLUDE.  19 

But  comes  much  later  on  the  scene 

As  Talus  in  the  Faerie  Queene, 

The  iron  groom  of  Artegall, 

Who  threshed  out  falsehood  and  deceit, 

And  truth  upheld,  and  righted  wrong, 

As  was,  as  is  the  swallow,  fleet, 

And  as  the  lion  is,  was  strong." 

The  Theologian  said  :  "  Perchance 

Your  chronicler  in  writing  this 

Had  in  his  mind  the  Anabasis, 

Where  Xenophon  describes  the  advance 

Of  Artaxerxes  to  the  fight ; 

At  first  the  low  gray  cloud  of  dust, 

And  then  a  blackness  o'er  the  fields 

As  of  a  passing  thunder-gust, 

Then  flash  of  brazen  armor  bright, 

And  ranks  of  men,  and  spears  up-thrust, 

Bowmen  and  troops  with  wicker  shields, 


20  TALES    OF   A   WAYSIDE   INN. 

And  cavalry  equipped  in  white, 
And  chariots  ranged  in  front  of  these 
With  scythes  upon  their  axle-trees." 

To  this  the  Student  answered  :  "  Well, 
I  also  have  a  tale  to  tell 
Of  Charlemagne  ;  a  tale  that  throws 
A  softer  light,  more  tinged  with  rose, 
Than  your  grim  apparition  cast 
Upon  the  darkness  of  the  past. 
Listen,  and  hear  in  English  rhyme 
What  the  good  Monk  of  Lauresheim 
Gives  as  the  gossip  of  his  time, 
In  mediaeval  Latin  prose." 


THE    STUDENT'S    TALE. 

EMMA    AND    EGINHARD. 

WHEN  Alcuin  taught  the  sons  of  Charlemagne, 
In  the  free  schools  of  Aix,  how  kings  should 

reign, 

And  with  them  taught  the  children  of  the  poor 
How  subjects  should  be  patient  and  endure, 
He  touched  the  lips  of  some,  as  best  befit, 
With  honey  from  the  hives  of  Holy  Writ ; 
Others  intoxicated  with  the  wine 
Of  ancient  history,  sweet  but  less  divine  ; 
Some  with  the  wholesome  fruits  of '  grammar 

fed; 

Others  with  mysteries  of  the  stars  o'erhead, 
That  hang  suspended  in  the  vaulted  sky 
Like  lamps  in  some  fair  palace  vast  and  high. 


22  TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE   INN. 

In  sooth,  it  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see 
That  Saxon  monk,  with  hood  and  rosary, 
With  inkhorn  at  his  belt,  and  pen  and  book, 
And  mingled  love  and  reverence  in  his  look, 
Or  hear  the  cloister  and  the  court  repeat 
The  measured  footfalls  of  his  sandaled  feet, 
Or  watch  him  with  the  pupils  of  his  school, 
Gentle  of  speech,  but  absolute  of  rule. 

Among  them,  always  earliest  in  his  place, 
Was  Eginhard,  a  youth  of  Prankish  race, 
Whose  face  was  bright  with  flashes  that  forerun 
The  splendors  of  a  yet  unrisen  sun. 
To  him  all  things  were  possible,  and  seemed 
Not  what  he  had  accomplished,  but  had  dreamed, 
And  what  were  tasks  to  others  were  his  play, 
The  pastime  of  an  idle  holiday. 

Smaragdo,  Abbot  of  St.  Michael's,  said, 
With  many  a  shrug  and  shaking  of  the  head, 


EMMA   AND    EGINHARD. 

Surely  some  demon  must  possess  the  lad, 
Who  showed  more  wit  than  ever  school-boy  had, 
And  learned  his  Trivium  thus  without  the  rod  ; 
But  Alcuin  said  it  was  the  grace  of  God. 

Thus  he  grew  up,  in  Logic  point-device, 

Perfect  in  Grammar,  and  in  Rhetoric  nice  ; 

Science  of  Numbers,  Geometric  art, 

And  lore  of  Stars,  and  Music  knew  by  heart ; 

A  Minnesinger,  long  before  the  times 

Of  those  who  sang  their  love  in  Suabian  rhymes. 

The  Emperor,  when  he  heard  this  good  report 
Of  Eginhard  much  buzzed  about  the  court, 
Said  to  himself,  "  This  stripling  seems  to  be 
Purposely  sent  into  the  world  for  me  ; 
He  shall  become  my  scribe,  and  shall  be  schooled 
In  all  the  arts  whereby  the  world  is  ruled." 
Thus  did  the  gentle  Eginhard  attain 
To  honor  in  the  court  of  Charlemagne ; 


24  TALES   OF  A  WAYSIDE   INN. 

Became  the  sovereign's  favorite,  his  right  hand, 
So  that  his  fame  was  great  in  all  the  land, 
And  all  men  loved  him  for  his  modest  grace 
And  comeliness  of  figure  and  of  face. 
An  inmate  of  the  palace,  yet  recluse, 
A  man  of  books,  yet  sacred  from  abuse 
Among  the  armed  knights  with  spur  on  heel, 
The  tramp  of  horses  and  the  clang  of  steel ; 
And  as  the  Emperor  promised  he  was  schooled 
In  all  the  arts  by  which  the  world  is  ruled. 
But  the  one  art  supreme,  whose  law  is  fate, 
The  Emperor  never  dreamed  of  till  too  late. 

Home  from  her  convent  to  the  palace  came 
The  lovely  Princess  Emma,  whose  sweet  name, 
Whispered  by  seneschal  or  sung  by  bard, 
Had  often  touched  the  soul  of  Eginhard. 
He  saw  her  from  his  window,  as  in  state 
She  came,  by  knights  attended  through  the  gate  ; 
He  saw  her  at  the  banquet  of  that  day, 


EMMA    AND    EGINHARD.  25 

Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  beautiful  as  May ;  ^ 
He  saw  her  in  the  garden,  as  she  strayed 
Among  the  flowers  of  summer  with  her  maid, 
And  said  to  him,  "  0  Eginhard,  disclose 
The  meaning  and  the  mystery  of  the  rose  "  ; 
And  trembling  he  made  answer :    "  In  good 

sooth, 
Its  mystery  is  love,  its  meaning  youth !  " 

How  can  I  tell  the  signals  and  the  signs 
By  which  one  heart  another  heart  divines  ? 
How  can  I  tell  the  many  thousand  ways 
By  which  it  keeps  the  secret  it  betrays  ? 

0  mystery  of  love  !     0  strange  romance  ! 
Among  the  Peers  and  Paladins  of  France, 
Shining  in  steel,  and  prancing  on  gay  steeds, 
Noble  by  birth,  yet  nobler  by  great  deeds, 
The  Princess  Emma  had  no  words  nor  looks 
But  for  this  clerk, -this  man  of  thought  and  books. 


26  TALES    OP    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

The, summer  passed,  the  autumn  came;  the  stalks 
Of  lilies  blackened  in  the  garden  walks  ; 
The  leaves  fell,  russet-golden  and  blood-red, 
Love-letters  thought  the  poet  fancy-led, 
Or  Jove  descending  in  a  shower  of  gold 
Into  the  lap  of  Danae  of  old ; 
For  poets  cherish  many  a  strange  conceit, 
And  love  transmutes  all  nature  by  its 'heat. 
No  more  the  garden  lessons,  nor  the  dark 
And  hurried  meetings  in  the  twilight  park ; 
But  now  the  studious  lamp,  and  the  delights 
Of  firesides  in  the  silent  winter  nights, 
And  watching  from  his  window  hour  by  hour 
The  light  that   burned   in    Princess    Emma's 
tower. 

At  length  one  night,  while  musing  by  the  fire, 
O'ercome  at  last  by  his  insane  desire,  — 
For  what  will  reckless  love  not  do  and  dare  ?  — 
He  crossed  the  court,  and  climbed  the  winding 
stair, 


EMMA    AND    EGINHABD.  27 

With  some  feigned  message  in  the  Emperor's 

name ; 

But  when  he  to  the  lady's  presence  came 
He  knelt  down  at  her  feet,  until  she  laid 
Her  hand  upon  him,  like  a  naked  blade, 
And  whispered  in  his  ear  :  "  Arise,  Sir  Knight, 
To  my  heart's  level,  0  my  heart's  delight." 

And  there  he  lingered  till  the  crowing  cock, 
The  Alectryon  of  the  farmyard  and  the  flock, 
Sang  his  aubade  with  lusty  voice  and  clear, 
To  tell  the  sleeping  world  that  dawn  was  ne*ar. 
And  then  they  parted  ;  but  at  parting,  lo  ! 
They  saw  the  palace  court-yard  white  with  snow, 
And,  placid  as  a  nun,  the  moon  on  high 
Gazing  from  cloudy  cloisters  of  the  sky. 
"  Alas  !  "  he  said,  "  how  hide  the  fatal  line 
Of  footprints  leading  from  thy  door  to  m'ne, 
And  none  returning!  "     All,  he  little  knew 
What  woman's  wit,  when  put  to  proof,  can  do ! 


28  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

That  night  the  Emperor,  sleepless  with  the  cares 
And  troubles  that  attend  on  state  affairs, 
Had  risen  before  the  dawn,  and  musing  gazed 
Into  the  silent  night,  as  one  amazed 
To  see  the  calm  that  reigned  o'er  all  supreme, 
When  his  own  reign  was  but  a  troubled  dream. 
The  moon  lit  up  the  gables  capped  with  snow, 
And  the  white  roofs,  and  half  the  court  below, 
And  he  beheld  a  form,  that  seemed  to  cower 
Beneath  a  burden,  come  from  Emma's  tower, — 
A  woman,  who  upon  her  shoulders  bore 
Clerk  Eginhard  to  his  own  private  door, 
And  then  returned  in  haste,  but  still  essayed 
To  tread  the  footprints  she  herself  had  made  ; 
And  as  she  passed  across  the  lighted  space, 
The  Emperor  saw  his  daughter  Emma's  face ! 

He  started  not ;  he  did  not  speak  or  moan, 
But  seemed  as  one  who  hath  been  turned  to 
stone ; 


EMMA    AND    EGINIIARD.  29 

And  stood  there  like  a  statue,  nor  awoke 
Out  of  his  trance  of  pain,  till  morning  broke, 
Till  the  stars  faded,  and  the  moon  went  down, 
And  o'er  the  towers  and  steeples  of  the  town 
Came  the  gray  daylight,  then  the  sun,  who  took 
The  empire  of  the  world  with  sovereign  look, 
Suffusing  with  a  soft  and  golden  glow 
All  the  dead  landscape  in  its  shroud  of  snow, 
Touching  with  flame  the  tapering  chapel  spires, 
Windows  and  roofs,  and  smoke  of  household 

fires, 

And  kindling  park  and  palace  as  he  came ; 
The  stork's  nest  on   the  chimney  seemed   in 

flame. 

And  thus  he  stood  till  Eginhard  appeared, 
Demure  and  modest  with  his  comely  beard 
And  flowing  flaxen  tresses,  come  to  ask, 
As  was  his  wont,  the  day's  appointed  task. 
The  Emperor  looked  upon  him  with  a  smile,  t 
And  gently  said  :  "  My  son,  wait  yet  awhile  ; 


30  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

This  hour  my  council  meets  upon  some  great 
And  very  urgent  business  of  the  state. 
Come  back  within  the  hour.     On  thy  return 
The  work  appointed  for  thee  shalt  thou  learn." 

Having  dismissed  this  gallant  Troubadour, 
He  summoned  straight  his  council,  and  secure 
And  steadfast  in  his  purpose,  from  the  throne 
All  the  adventure  of  the  night  made  known ; 
Then  asked  for  sentence  ;  and  with,  eager  breath 
Some  answered  banishment,  and  others  death. 

Then  spake  the  king:  "  Your  sentence  is  not 

mine ; 

Life  is  the  gift  of  God,  and  is  divine ; 
Nor  from  these  palace  walls  shall  one  depart 
Who  carries  such  a  secret  in  his  heart ; 
My  better  judgment  points  another  way. 
Good  Alcuin,  I  remember  how  one  day 
When  my  Pepino  asked  you,  '  What  are  men  ?  ' 


EMMA    AND    EGINHARD.  31 

You  wrote  upon  his  tablets  with  your  pen, 

c  Guests  of  the  grave  and  travellers  that  pass ! ' 

Tins  being  true  of  all  men,  we,  alas ! 

Being  all  fashioned  of  the  self-same  dust, 

Let  us  be  merciful  as  well  as  just ; 

This  passing  traveller,  who  hath  stolen  away 

The  brightest  jewel  of  my  crown  to-day, 

Shall  of  himself  the  precious  gem  restore ; 

By  giving  it,  I  make  it  mine  once  more. 

Over  those  fatal  footprints  I  will  throw 

My  ermine  mantle  like  another  snow." 

Then  Eginhard  was  summoned  to  the  hall, 
And  entered,  and  in  presence  of  them  all, 
The  Emperor  said  :  "  My  son,  for  thou  to  me 
Hast  been  a  son,  and  evermore  shalt  be, 
Long  hast  thou  served  thy  sovereign,  and  thy 

zeal 

Pleads  to  me  with  importunate  appeal, 
While  I  have  been  forgetful  to  requite 


32  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Thy  service  and  affection  as  was  right. 
But  now  the  hour  is  come,  when  I,  thy  Lord, 
Will  crown  thy  love  with  such  supreme  reward, 
A  gift  so  precious  kings  have  striven  in  vain 
To  win  it  from  the  hands  of  Charlemagne." 

Then  sprang  the  portals  of  the  chamber  wide, 
And  Princess  Emma  entered,  in  the  pride 
Of  birth  and  beauty,  that  in  part  overcame 
The  conscious  terror  and  the  blush  of  shame. 
And  the  good  Emperor  rose  up  from  his  throne, 
And  taking  her  white  hand  within  his  own 
Placed  it  in  Eginhard's,  and  said :  "  My  son, 
This  is  the  gift  thy  constant  zeal  hath  won  ; 
Thus  I  repay  the  royal  debt  I  owe, 
And  cover  up  the  footprints  in  the  snow." 


INTEBLUDE. 

THUS  ran  the  Student's  pleasant  rhyme 
Of  Eginhard  and  love  and  youth  ; 
Some  doubted  its  historic  truth, 
But  while  they  doubted,  ne'ertheless 
Saw  in  it  gleams  of  truthfulness, 
And  thanked  .the  Monk  of  Lauresheim. 

This  they  discussed  in  various  mood ; 
Then  in  the  silence  that  ensued 
Was  heard  a  sharp  and  sudden  sound 
As  of  a  bowstring  snapped  in  air ; 
And  the  Musician  with  a  bound 
Sprang  up  in  terror  from  his  chair, 
And  for  a  moment  listening  stood, 

2*  C 


34  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INX. 

Then  strode  across  the  room,  and  found 

His  dear,  his  darling  violin 

Still  lying  safe  asleep  within 

Its  little  cradle,  like  a  child 

That  gives  a  sudden  cry  of  pain, 

And  wakes  to  fall  asleep  again ; 

And  as  he  looked  at  it  and  smiled, 

By  the  uncertain  light  beguiled, 

Despair !  two  strings  were  broken  in  twain. 

While  all  lamented  and  made  moan, 
With  many  a  sympathetic  word 
As  if  the  loss  had  been  their  own, 
Deeming  the  tones  they  might  have  heard 
Sweeter  than  they  had  heard  before, 
They  saw  the  Landlord  at  the  door, 
The  missing  man,  the  portly  Squire  ! 
He  had  not  entered,  but  he  stood 
With  both  arms  full  of  seasoned  wood, 
To  feed  the  much-devouring  fire, 


INTERLUDE.  35 

r 

That  like  a  lion  in  a  cage 

Lashed  its  long  tail  and  roared  with  rage. 

The  missing  man !     Ah,  yes,  they  said, 
Missing,  but  whither  had  he  fled  ? 
Where  had  he  hidden  himself  away  ? 
No  farther  than  the  barn  or  shed ; 
He  had  not  hidden  himself,  nor  fled ; 
How  should  he  pass  the  rainy  day 
But  in  his  barn  with  hens  and  hay, 
Or  mending  harness,  cart,  or  sled  ? 
Now,  having  come,  he  needs  must  stay 
And  tell  his  tale  as  well  as  they. 

The  Landlord  answered  only  :  "  These 
Are  logs  from  the  dead  apple-trees 
Of  the  old  orchard  planted  here 
By  the  first  Howe  of  Sudbury. 
Nor  oak  nor  maple  has  so  clear 
A  flame,  or  burns  so  quietly, 


36  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Or  leaves  an  ash  so  clean  and  white  "  ; 

Thinking  by  this  to  put  aside 

The  impending  tale  that  terrified ; 

When  suddenly,  to  his  delight, 

The  Theologian  interposed, 

Saying  that  when  the  door  was  closed, 

And  they  had  stopped  that  draft  of  cold, 

Unpleasant  night  air,  he  proposed 

To  tell  a  tale  world-wide  apart 

From  that  the  Student  had  just  told ; 

World-wide  apart,  and  yet  akin, 

As  showing  that  the  human  heart 

Beats  on  forever  as  of  old, 

As  well  beneath  the  snow-white  fold 

Of  Quaker  kerchief,  as  within 

Sendal  or  silk  or  cloth  of  gold, 

And  without  preface  would  begin. 

And  then  the  clamorous  clock  struck  eight, 
Deliberate,  with  sonorous  chime. 


INTERLUDE.  37 

Slow  measuring  out  the  march  of  time, 

Like  some  grave  Consul  of  old  Rome 

In  Jupiter's  temple  driving  home 

The  nails  that  marked  the  year  and  date. 

Thus  interrupted  in  his  rhyme, 

The  Theologian  needs  must  wait ; 

But  quoted  Horace,  where  he  sings 

The  dire  Necessity  of  things, 

That  drives  into  the  roofs  sublime 

Of  new-built  houses  of  the  great 

The  adamantine  nails  of  Fate. 

When  ceased  the  little  carillon 
To  herald  from  its  wooden  tower 
The  important  transit  of  the  hour. 
The  Theologian  hastened  on, 
Content  to  be  allowed  at  last 
To  sing  his  Idyl  of  the  Past. 


THE  THEOLOGIAN'S  TALE. 

ELIZABETH. 
I. 

"  AH,  how  short  are  the  days !     How  soon  the 

night  overtakes  us ! 
In  the  old  country  the  twilight  is  longer ;  but 

here  in  the  forest 
Suddenly  comes  the  dark,  with  hardly  a  pause 

in  its  coming, 
Hardly  a  moment  between  the  two  lights,  the 

day  and  the  lamplight ; 
Yet  how  grand  is  the  winter !     How  spotless 

the  snow  is,  and  perfect !  " 

Thus  spake  Elizabeth  Haddon  at  nightfall  to 

Hannah  the  housemaid, 

• 

As  in  the  farm-house  kitchen,  that  served  for 
kitchen  and  parlor, 


ELIZABETH.  39 

By  the  window  she  sat  with  her  work,  and  looked 
on  a  landscape 

White  as  the  great  white  sheet  that  Peter  saw 
in  his  vision, 

B%  the  four  corners  let  down  and  descending 
out  of  the  heavens. 

Covered  with  snow  were  the  forests  of  pine,  and 
the  fields  and  the  meadows. 

Nothing  was  dark' but  the  sky,  and  the  distant 
Delaware  flowing 

Down  from  its  native  hills,  a  peaceful  and  boun 
tiful  river. 

Then  with  a  smile  on  her  lips  made  answer 

Hannah  the  housemaid : 
"  Beautiful  winter !  yea,  the  winter  is  beautiful, 

surely, 
If  one  could  only  walk  like  a  fly  with  one's  feet 

on  the  ceiling. 
But  the   great  Delaware  river  is  not  like  the 

Thames,  as  we  saw  it 


40  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Out  of  our  upper  windows  in  Rotherhithe  Street 

in  the  Borough, 
Crowded  with  masts  and  sails  of  vessels  coming 

and  going ; 
Here  there  is  nothing  but  pines,  with  patches 

of  snow  on  their  branches. 
There  is  snow  in  the  air,  and  see !   it  is  fall 
ing  already ; 
All  the  roads  will  be  blocked,  and  I  pity  Joseph 

to-morrow, 
Breaking  his  way  through  the  drifts,  with  his 

sled  and  oxen  ;  and  then,  too, 
How  in  all  the  world  shall  we  get  to  Meeting 

on  First-Day  ? " 

But  Elizabeth  checked  her,  and  answered, 

mildly  reproving : 
"  Surely  the  Lord  will  provide ;  for  unto   the 

snow  he  sayeth, 
Be  thou  on  the  earth,  the  good  Lord  sayeth  ;  he 

is  it 


ELIZABETH.  41 

Giveth  snow  like  wool,  like  ashes  scatters  the 

hoar-frost." 
So  she  folded  her  work  and  laid  it  away  in  her 

basket. 


Meanwhile  Hannah  the  housemaid  had  closed 
and  fastened  the  shutters, 

Spread  the  cloth,  and  lighted  the  lamp  on  the 
table,  and  placed  there 

Plates  and  cups  from  the  dresser,  the  brown  rye 
loaf,  and  the  butter 

Fresh  from  the  dairy,  and  then,  protecting  her 
hand  with  a  holder, 

Took  from  the  crane  in  the  chimney  the  steam 
ing  and  simmering  kettle, 

Poised  it  aloft  in  the  air,  and  filled  up  the 
earthen  teapot, 

Made  in  Delft,  and  adorned  with  quaint  and 
wonderful  figures. 


42  TALES    OF   A   WAYSIDE 

Then  Elizabeth  said,  "  Lo !    Joseph  is  long 

on  his  errand. 
I  have  sent  him  away  with  a  hamper  of  food 

and  of  clothing 
For  the  poor  in  the  village.     A  good  lad  and 

cheerful  is  Joseph ; 
In  the  right  place  is  his  heart,  and  his  hand  is 

ready  and  willing." 


Thus  in  praise  of  her  servant  she  spake,  and 
Hannah  the  housemaid 

Laughed  with  her  eyes,  as  she  listened,  but  gov 
erned  her  tongue,  and  was  silent, 

While  her  mistress  went  on  :  "  The  house  is  far 
from  the  village ; 

We  should  be  lonely  here,  were  it  not  for  Friends 
that  in  passing 

Sometimes  tarry  o'crnight,  and  make  us  glad 
by  their  coming." 


ELIZABETH.  43 

Thereupon  answered  Hannah  the  housemaid, 

* 
the  thrifty,  the  frugal : 

"  Yea,  they  come  and  they  tarry,  as  if  thy  house 
were  a  tavern ; 

Open  to  all  are  its  doors,  and  they  come  and  go 
like  the  pigeons 

In  and  out  of  the  holes  of  the  pigeon-house  over 
the  hayloft, 

Cooing  and  smoothing  their  feathers  and  bask 
ing  themselves  in  the  sunshine. " 

But  in  meekness  of  spirit,  and  calmly,  Eliza 
beth  answered : 

"  All  I  have  is  the  Lord's,  not  mine  to  give  or 
withhold  it ; 

I  but  distribute  his  gifts  to  the  poor,  and  to 
those  of  his  people 

Who  in  journeyings  often  surrender  their  lives 
to  his  service. 

His,  not  mine,  are  the  gifts,  and  only  so  far  can 
I  make  them 


44  TALES    OF   A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Mine,  as  in  giving  I  add  my  heart  to  whatever 

j- 
is  given. 

Therefore  my ,  excellent  father  first  built  this 

house  in  the  clearing ; 
Though  he  came  not  himself,  I  came ;  for  the 

Lord  was  my  guidance, 
Leading  me  here  for  this  service.     We  must 

not  grudge,  then,  to  others 
Ever  the  cup  of  cold  water,  or  crumbs  that  fall 

from  our  table." 

Thus  rebuked,  for  a  season  was  silent  the 
penitent  housemaid ; 

And  Elizabeth  said  in  tones  even  sweeter  and 
softer : 

"  Dost  thou  remember,  Hannah,  the  great  May- 
Meeting  in  London, 

When  I  was  still  a  child,  how  we  sat  in  the 
silent  assembly, 

Waiting  upon  the  Lord  in  patient  and  passive 
submission  ? 


45 

No  one  spake,  till  at  length  a  young  man,  a 

stranger,  John  Estaugh, 
Moved  by  the  Spirit,  rose,  as  if  he  were  John 

the  Apostle, 
Speaking  such  words  of  power  that  they  bowed 

our  hearts,  as  a  strong  wind 
Bends  the  grass  of  the  fields,  or  grain  that  is 

ripe  for  the  sickle. 
Thoughts  of  him  to-day  have  been  oft  borne 

inward  upon  me, 
Wherefore  I  do  not  know ;  but  strong  is  the 

feeling  within  me 
That  once  more  I  shall  see  a  face  I  have  never 

forgotten." 

IT. 

E'en  as  she  spake  they  heard  the  musical  jan 
gle  of  sleigh-bells, 

First  far  off,  with  a  dreamy  sound  and  faint  in 
the  distance, 


46  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    IXN. 


Then  growing  nearer  and  louder,  and  turning 

into  the  farmyard, 
Till  it  stopped  at  the  door,  with  sudden  creak 

ing  of  runners. 
Then  there  were  voices  heard  as  of  two  men 

talking  together, 
And  to  herself,  as  she  listened,  upbraiding  said 

Hannah  the  housemaid, 
"  It  is  Joseph  come  back,  and  I  wonder  what 

stranger  is  with  him." 

Down  from  its  nail  she  took  and  lighted  the 

great  tin  lantern 
Pierced  with  holes,  and  round,  and  roofed  like 

the  top  of  a  lighthouse, 
And  went  forth  to  receive  the  coming  guest  at 

the  doorway, 
Casting  into  the  dark  a  network  of  glimmer  and 

shadow 
Over  the  falling  snow,  the  yellow  sleigh,  and  the 

horses, 


ELIZABETH.  47 

And  the  forms  of  men,  snow-covered,  looming 

gigantic. 
Then  giving  Joseph  the  lantern,  she  -entered 

the  house  with  the  stranger. 
Youthful  he  was  and  tall,  and  his  cheeks  aglow 

with  the  night  air  ; 
And  as  he  entered,  Elizabeth  rose,  and,  going 

to  meet  him, 

As  if  an  unseen  power  had  announced  and  pre 
ceded  his  presence, 
And  he  had  come  as  one  whose  coming  had  long 

been  expected, 
Quietly  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said,  "  Thou 

art  welcome,  John  Estaugh." 
And  the  stranger  replied,  with  staid  and  quiet 

behavior, 
"  Dost  thou  remember  me  still,  Elizabeth  ?  After 

so  many 
Years  have  passed,  it  seemeth  a  wonderful  thing 

that  I  find  thce. 


48 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


Surely  the  hand  of  the  Lord  conducted  me  here 

to  thy  threshold. 
For  as  I  journeyed  along,  and  pondered  alone 

and  in  silence 
On  his  ways,  that  are  past  finding  out,  I  saw  in 

the  snow-mist, 
Seemingly  weary  with  travel,  a  wayfarer,  who  by 

the  wayside 
Paused  and  waited.     Forthwith  I  remembered 

Queen  Candace's  eunuch, 

How  on  the  way  that  goes  down  from  Jerusa 
lem  unto  Gaza, 
Reading  Esaias  the  Prophet,  he  journeyed,  and 

spake  unto  Philip, 
Praying  him  to  come  up  and  sit  in  his  chariot 

with  him. 
So  I  greeted  the  man,  and  he  mounted  the  sledge 

beside  me, 
And  as  we  talked  on  the  way  he  told  me  of  thce 

and  thy  homestead, 


ELIZABETH.  49 

How,  being  led  by  the  light  of  the  Spirit,  that 

never  deceiveth, 
Full  of  zeal  for  the  work  of  the  Lord,  thou  hadst 

come  to  this  country. 
And  I  remembered  thy  name,  and  thy  father  and 

mother  in  England, 
And  on  my  journey  have  stopped  to  see  thee, 

Elizabeth  Haddon, 
Wishing  to  strengthen  thy  hand  in  the  labors 

of  love  thou  art  doing." 


And  Elizabeth  answered  with  confident  voice, 

and  serenely 
Looking  into  his  face  with  her  innocent  eyes  as 

she  answered, 
"  Surely  the  hand  of  the  Lord  is  in  it ;  his  Spirit 

hath  led  thee 
Out  of  the  darkness  and  storm  to  the  light  and 

peace  of  my  fireside." 


50     A  TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE   INN. 

Then,  with  stamping  of  feet,  the  door  was 

opened,  and  Joseph 
Entered,   bearing   the   lantern,  and,  carefully 

blowing  the  light  out, 
Hung  it  up  on  its  nail,  and  all  sat  down  to  their 

supper ; 
For  underneath  that  roof  was  no  distinction  of 

persons, 
But  one  family  only,  one  heart,  one  hearth,  and 

one  household* 

When  the  supper  was  ended  they  drew  their 
chairs  to  the  fireplace, 

Spacious,  open-hearted,  profuse  of  flame  and  of 
firewood, 

Lord  of  forests  unfelled,  and  not  a  gleaner  of 
fagots, 

Spreading  its  arms  to  embrace  with  inexhausti 
ble  bounty 

All  who  fled  from  the  cold,  exultant,  laughing 
at  winter ! 


ELIZABETH.  51 

Only  Hannah  the  housemaid  was  busy  in  clear 
ing  the  table, 

Coming  and  going,  and  bustling  about  in  closet 
and  chamber. 


Then  Elizabeth  told  her  story  again  to  John 

Estaugh, 
Going  far  back  to  the  past,  to  the  early  days  of 

her  childhood ; 
How  she  had  waited  and  watched,  in  all  her 

doubts  and  besetments 
Comforted  with  the  extendings  and  holy,  sweet 

inflowings 
Of  the  spirit  of  love,  till  the  voice  imperative 

sounded, 
And  she  obeyed  the  voice,  and  cast  in  her  lot 

with  her  people 
Here  in  the  desert  land,  and  God  would  provide 

for  the  issue. 


52  TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE    I 


Meanwhile  Joseph  sat  with  folded  hands,  and 

demurely 
Listened,  or  seemed  to  listen,  and  in  the  silence 

that  followed 
Nothing  was  heard  for  a  while  but  the  step  of 

Hannah  the  housemaid 
Walking  the  floor  overhead,  and  setting  the 

chambers  in  order. 
And  Elizabeth  said,  with  a  smile  of  compassion, 

"  The  maiden 
Hath  a  light  heart  in  her  breast,  but  her  feet 

are  heavy  and  awkward." 
Inwardly  Joseph   laughed,   but   governed  his 

tongue,  and  was  silent. 


Then  came  the  hour  of  sleep,  death's  coun 
terfeit,  nightly  rehearsal 
Of  the  great  Silent  Assembly,  the  Meeting  of 
shadows,  where  no  man 


ELIZABETH.  53 

Speaketh,  but  all  are  still,  and  the  peace  and 
rest  are  unbroken ! 

Silently  over  that  house  the  blessing  of  slumber 
descended. 

But  when  the  morning  dawned,  and  the  sun 
uprose  in  his  splendor, 

Breaking  his  way  through  clouds  that  encum 
bered  his  path  in  the  heavens, 

Joseph  was  seen  with  his  sled  and  oxen  break 
ing  a  pathway 

Through  the  drifts  of  snow ;  the  horses  already 
were  harnessed, 

And  John  Estaugh  was  standing  and  taking 
leave  at  the  threshold, 

Saying  that  he  should  return  at  the  Meeting  in 
May ;  while  above  them 

Hannah  the  housemaid,  the  homely,  was  look 
ing  out  of  the  attic, 

Laughing  aloud  at  Joseph,  then  suddenly  clos 
ing  the  casement, 


54  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE 

As  the  bird  in  a  cuckoo-clock  peeps  out  of  its 

window, 
Then  disappears  again,  and  closes  the  shutter 

behind  it. 


in.  ' 
Now  was  the  winter  gone,  and  the  snow  ;  and 

Robin  the  Redbreast, 
Boasted  on  bush  and  tree  it  was  he,  it  was  he 

and  no  other 
That  had  covered  with  leaves  the  Babes  in  the 

Wood,  and  blithely 
All  the  birds  sang  with  him,  and  little  cared 

for  his  boasting, 
Or  for  his  Babes  in  the  Wood,  or  the  Cruel 

Uncle,  and  only 
Sang  for  the  mates  they  had  chosen,  and  cared 

for  the  nests  they  were  building. 
With  them,  but  more  sedately  and  meekly,  Eliz 
abeth  Haddon 


ELIZABETH.  55 

Sang  in  'her  inmost  heart,  but  her  lips  were 

silent  and  songless. 
Thus  came  the  lovely  spring  with  a  rush  of 

blossoms  and  music, 
Flooding  the  earth  with  flowers,  and  the  air 

with  melodies  vernal. 

Then  it  came  to  pass,  one  pleasant  morning, 

that  slowly 

Up  the  road  there  came  a  cavalcade,  as  of  pil 
grims,  ' 
Men  and  women,  wending   their  way  to  the 

Quarterly  Meeting 
In  the  neighboring  town  ;  and  with  them  came 

riding  John  Estaugh. 
At  Elizabeth's  door  they  stopped  to  rest,  and 

alighting 
Tasted  the  currant  wine,  and  the  bread  of  rye, 

and  the  honey 
Brought   from   the   hives,   that   stood  by  the 

sunny  wall  of  the  garden  ; 


56 


TALES    OF   A    WAYSIDE   INN. 


Then    remounted  their  horses,  refreshed,  and 

continued  their  journey, 

And  Elizabeth  with  them,  and  Joseph,  and  Han 
nah  the  housemaid. 

But,  as  they  started,  Elizabeth  lingered  a  lit 
tle,  and  leaning 
Over  her  horse's  neck,  in  a  whisper  said  to  John 

Estaugh : 
4  Tarry  awhile  behind,  for  I  have  something  to 

tell  thee, 
Not  to  be  spoken  lightly,  nor  in  the  presence 

of  others  ; 
Them  it  concerneth  not,  only  thee  and  me  it 

concerneth." 
And  they  rode  slowly  along  through  the  woods, 

conversing  together. 
It  was  a  pleasure  to  breathe  the  fragrant  air  of 

the  forest ; 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  live  on  that  bright  and 
happy  May  morning ! 


ELIZABETH.  57 

Then  Elizabeth  said,  though  still  with  a  cer 
tain  reluctance, 

As  if  impelled  to  reveal  a  secret  she  fain  would 
have  guarded : 

"  I  will  no  longer  conceal  what  is  laid  upon  me 
to  tell  thee ; 

I  have  received  from  the  Lord  a  charge  to  love 
thee,  John  Estaugh." 


And  John  Estaugh  made  answer,  surprised 

by  the  words  she  had  spoken, 
"  Pleasant  to  me  are  thy  converse,  thy  ways, 

thy  meekness  of  spirit ; 
Pleasant  thy  frankness  of  speech,  and  thy  soul's 

immaculate  whiteness, 
Love  without  dissimulation,  a  holy  and  inward 

adorning. 
But  I  have  yet  no  light  to  lead  me,  no  voice  to 

direct  me. 


58  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INJS". 

When  the  Lord's  work  is  done,  and  the  toil  and 

the  labor  completed 
He  hath  appointed  to  me,  I  will  gather  into  the 

stillness 
Of  my  own  heart  awhile,  and  listen  and  wait 

for  his  guidance." 

Then  Elizabeth  said,  not  troubled  nor  wound 
ed  in  spirit, 
"  So  is  it  best,  John  Estaugh.     We  will  not 

speak  of  it  further. 
It  hath  been  laid  upon  me  to  tell  thec  this,  for 

to-morrow 
Thou  art  going  away,  across  the  sea,  and  I 

know  not 
When  I  shall  see  thee  more ;  but  if  the  Lord 

hath  decreed  it, 
Thou  wilt  return  again  to  seek  me  here  and  to 

find  me." 
And  they  rode  onward  in  silence,  and  entered 

the  town  witli  the  others. 


ELIZABETH.  59 


IV. 

•** 

Ships  that  pass  in  the  night,  and  speak  each 

other  in  passing, 
Only  a  signal  shown  and  a  distant  voice  in  the 

darkness ; 
So  on  the  ocean  of  life  we  pass  and  speak  one 

another, 
Only  a  look  and  a  voice,  then  darkness  again 

and  a  silence. 

Now  went  on  as  of  old  the  quiet  life  of  the 

homestead. 
Patient   and  unrepining  Elizabeth  labored,  in 

all  things 
Mindful  not  of  herself,  but  bearing  the  burdens 

of  others, 
Always  thoughtful  and  kind  and  untroubled ; 

and  Hannah  the  housemaid 
Diligent  early  and  late,  and  rosy  with  washing 

and  scouring, 


60  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Still  as  of  old  disparaged  the  eminent  merits 

of  Joseph, 
And  was  at  times  reproved  for  her  light  and 

frothy  behavior, 
For  her  shy  looks,  and  her  careless  words,  and 

her  evil  surmisings, 
Being  pressed  down  somewhat,  like  a  cart  with 

sheaves  overladen, 
As  she  would  sometimes  say  to  Joseph,  quoting 

the  Scriptures. 

Meanwhile  John  Estaugh  departed  across  the 
sea,  and  departing 

Carried  hid  in  his  heart  a  secret  sacred  and 
precious, 

Filling  its  chambers  with  fragrance,  and  seem 
ing  to  him  in  its  sweetness 

Mary's  ointment  of  spikenard,  that  filled  all  the 
house  with  its  odor. 

0  lost  days  of  delight,  that  are  wasted  in  doubt 
ing  and  waiting ! 


ELIZABETH.  61 

0  lost  hours  and  days  in  which  we  might  have 

been  happy ! 
But  the  light  shone  at  last,  and  guided  his 

wavering  footsteps, 
And  at  last  came  the  voice,  imperative, 

tionless,  certain. 


Then  John  Estaugh  came  back  o'er  the  sea 
for  the  gift  that  was  offered, 

Better  than  houses  and  lands,  the  gift  of  a 
woman's  affection. 

And  on  the  First-Day  that  followed,  he  rose  in 
the  Silent  Assembly, 

Holding  in'  his  strong  hand  a  hand  that  trem 
bled  a  little, 

Promising  to  be  kind  and  true  and  faithful  in 
all  things. 

Such  were  the  marriage-rites  of  John  and  Eliz 
abeth  Estaugh. 


62  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

And  not  otherwise  Joseph,  the  honest,  the 
diligent  servant, 

Sped  in  his  bashful  wooing  with  homely  Hannah, 
the  housemaid ; 

For  when  he  asked  her  the  question,  she  an 
swered,  "  Nay  "  ;  and  then  added : 

"  But  thee  may  make  believe,  and  see  what  will 
come  of  it,  Joseph." 


INTERLUDE. 

"  A  PLEASANT  and  a  winsome  tale," 

The  Student  said,  "  though  somewhat  pale 

And  quiet  in  its  coloring, 

As  if  it  caught  its  tone  and  air 

From  the  gray  suits  that  Quakers  wear ; 

Yet  worthy  of  some  German  bard, 

Hebel,  or  Yoss,  or  Eberhard, 

Who  love  of  humble  themes  to  sing, 

In  humble  verse  ;  but  no  more  true 

Than  was  the  tale  I  told  to  you." 

The  Theologian  made  reply, 

And  with  some  warmth,  "  That  I  deny ; 

'T  is  no  invention  of  my  own, 


64 


INTERLUDE. 

But  something  well  and  widely  known 
To  readers  of  a  riper  age, 
Writ  by  the  skilful  hand  that  wrote 
The  Indian  tale  of  Hobomok, 
And  Philothea's  classic  page. 
I  found  it  like  a  waif  afloat, 
Or  dulse  uprooted  from  its  rock, 
On  the  swift  tides  that  ebb  and  flow 
In  daily  papers,  and  at  flood 
Bear  freighted  vessels  to  and  fro, 
But  later,  when  the  ebb  is  low, 
Leave  a  long  waste  of  sand  and  mud." 

"  It  matters  little,"  quoth  the  Jew ; 
"  The  cloak  of  truth  is  lined  with  lies, 
Sayeth  some  proverb  old  and  wise  ; 
And  Love  is  master  of  all  arts, 
And  puts  it  into  human  hearts 
The  strangest  things  to  say  and  do." 


INTERLUDE.  65 

And  here  the  controversy  closed 

Abruptly,  ere  't  was  well  begun  ; 

For  the  Sicilian  interposed 

With,  "  Lordlings,  listen,  every  one 

That  listen  may,  unto  a  tale 

That 's  merrier  than  the  nightingale  ; 

A  tale  that  cannot  boast,  forsooth, 

A  single  rag  or  shred  of  truth  ; 

That  does  not  leave  the  mind  in  doubt 

As  to  the  with  it  or  without ; 

A  naked  falsehood  and  absurd 

As  mortal  ever  told  or  heard. 

Therefore  I  tell  it ;  or,  maybe, 

Simply  because  it  pleases  me." 


THE  SICILIAN'S  TALE. 

THE   MONK    OF   CASAL-MAGGIORE. 

ONCE  on  a  time,  some  centuries  ago, 

In  the  hot  sunshine  two  Franciscan  friars 

Wended  their  weary  way  with  footsteps  slow 
Back  to  their  convent,  whose  white  walls 
and  spires 

Gleamed  on  the  hillside  like  a  patch  of  snow ; 
Covered  with  dust  they  were,  and  torn  by 
briers, 

And  bore  like  sumpter-mules  upon  their  backs 

The  badge  of  poverty,  their  beggar's  sacks. 

The  first  was  Brother  Anthony,  a  spare 

And  silent  man,  with  pallid  cheeks  and  thin, 

Much  given  to  vigils,  penance,  fasting,  prayer, 
Solemn  and  gray,  and  worn  with  discipline, 


THE   MOXK   OF   CASAL-MAGGIOKE.  67 

As  if  his  body  but  white  ashes  were, 

Heaped  on  the  living  coals  that  glowed  within ; 
A  simple  monk,  like  many  of  his  day, 
Whose  instinct  was  to  listen  and  obey. 

A  different  man  was  Brother  Timothy, 
Of  larger  mould  and  of  a  coarser  paste ; 

A  rubicund  and  stalwart  monk  was  he, 

Broad  in  the  shoulders,  broader  in  the  waist. 

Who  often  filled  the  dull  refectory 

Witli  noise  by  which  the  convent  was  dis 
graced, 

But  to  the  mass-book  gave  but  little  heed, 

By  reason  he  had  never  learned  to  read. 

Now,  as  they  passed  the  outskirts  of  a  wood, 
They  saw,  with  mingled  pleasure  and  surprise, 

Fast  tethered  to  a  tree  an  ass,  that  stood 
Lazily  winking  his  large,  limpid  eyes. 

The  farmer  Gilbert  of  that  neighborhood 
His  owner  was,  who,  looking  for  supplies 


68  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE 

Of  fagots,  deeper  in  the  wood  had  strayed, 
Leaving  his  beast  to  ponder  in  the  shade. 

As  soon  as  Brother  Timothy  espied 

The  patient  animal,  he  said  :  "  Good-lack ! 

Thus  for  our  needs  doth  Providence  provide ; 
We  '11  lay  our  wallets  on  the  creature's  back." 

This  being  done,  he  leisurely  untied 

From  head  and  neck  the  halter  of  the  jack, 

And  put  it  round  his  own,  and  to  the  tree 

Stood  tethered  fast  as  if  the  ass  were  he. 

And,  bursting  forth  into  a  merry  laugh, 
He  cried  to  Brother  Anthony  :  "  Away  ! 

And  drive  the  ass  before  you  with  your  staff ; 
And  when  you  reach  the  convent  you  may  say 

You  left  me  at  a  farm,  half  tired  and  half 
111  with  a  fever,  for  a  night  and  day, 

And  that  the  farmer  lent  this  ass  to  bear 

Our  wallets,  that  are  heavy  with  good  fare." 


THE    MONK    OF    CASAL-MAGGIOEE.  69 

Now  Brother  Anthony,  who  knew  the  pranks 
Of  Brother  Timothy,  would  not  persuade 

Or  reason  with  him  on  his  quirks  and  cranks, 
But,  being  obedient,  silently  obeyed  ; 

And,  smiting  with  his  staff  the  ass's  flanks, 
Drove  him  before  him  over  hill  and  glade, 

Safe  with  his  provend  to  the  convent  gate, 

Leaving  poor  Brother  Timothy  to  his  fate. 


Then  Gilbert,  laden  with  fagots  for  his  fire, 
Forth  issued  from  the  wood,  and  stood  aghast 

To  see  the  ponderous  body  of  the  friar 

Standing  where  he  had  left  his  donkey  last. 

Trembling  he  stood,  and   dared  not  venture 

nigher, 

But  stared,  and  gaped,  and  crossed  himself 
full  fast ; 

For,  being  credulous  and  of  little  wit, 

He  thought  it  was  some  demon  from  the  pit. 


70  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 


While  speechless  and  bewildered  thus  he  gazed, 
And  dropped  his  load  of  fagots  on  the  ground, 

Quoth  Brother  Timothy  :  "  Be  not  amazed 
That  where  you  left  a  donkey  should  be  found 

A  poor  Franciscan  friar,  half-starved  and  crazed, 
Standing  demure  and  with  a  halter  bound  ; 

But  set  me  free,  and  hear  the  piteous  story 

Of  Brother  Timothy  of  Casal-Maggiore. 

"  I  am  a  sinful  man,  although  you  see 
I  wear  the  consecrated  cowl  and  cape  ; 

You  never  owned  an  ass,  but  you  owned  me, 
Changed  and  transformed  from  my  own  nat 
ural  shape 

All  for  the  deadly  sin  of  gluttony, 

From  which  I  could  not  otherwise  escape, 

Than  by  this  penance,  dieting  on  grass, 

And  being  worked  and  beaten  as  an  ass. 

"  Think  of  the  ignominy  I  endured  ; 
Think  of  the  miserable  life  I  led, 


THE   MONK   OF   CASAL-MAGGIOKE.  71 

The  toil  and  blows  to  which  I  was  inured, 
My  wretched  lodging  in  a  windy  shed, 

My  scanty  fare  so  grudgingly  procured, 

The  damp  and  musty  straw  that  formed  my 
bed ! 

But,  having  done  this  penance  for  my  sins, 

My  life  as  man  and  monk  again  begins." 

The  simple  Gilbert,  hearing  words  like  these, 
Was  conscience-stricken,  and  fell  down  apace 

Before  the  friar  upon  his  bended  knees, 

And   with   a   suppliant   voice  implored  his 
grace ; 

And  the  good  monk,  now  very  much  at  ease, 
Granted  him  pardon  with  a  smiling  face, 

Nor  could  refuse  to  be  that  night  his  guest, 

* 
It  being  late,  and  he  in  need  of  rest. 

Upon  a  hillside,  where  the  olive  thrives, 

With    figures   painted   on   its   whitewashed 
walls, 


72  TALES    OF   A   WAYSIDE 

The  cottage  stood  ;  and  near  the  humming  hives 
Made  murmurs  as  of  far-off  waterfalls  ; 

A  place  where  those  who  love  secluded  lives 
Might  live  content,  and,  free  from  noise  and 
brawls, 

Like  Claudian's  Old  Man  of  Verona  here 

Measure  by  fruits  the  slow-revolving  year. 

And,  coming  to  this  cottage  of  content, 

They  found  his  children,  and   the  buxom 
wench 

His  wife,  Dame  Cicely,  and  his  father,  bent 
With  years  and  labor,  seated  on  a  bench, 

Repeating  over  some  obscure  event 

In  the  old  wars  of  Milanese  and  French  ; 

All  welcomed  the  Franciscan,  with  a  sense 

Of  sacred  awe  and  humble  reverence. 

When  Gilbert  told  them  what  had  come  to  pass, 
How  beyond  question,  cavil,  or  surmise, 


THE    MOXK    OF    CASAL-MAGGIORE.  73 

Good  Brother  Timothy  had  been  their  ass, 
You  should  have  seen  the  wonder  in  their 

eyes  ; 

You  should  have  heard  them  cry, "  Alas !  alas ! " 
Have    heard   their   lamentations    and   their 

sighs ! 

For  all  believed  the  story,  and  began 
To  see  a  saint  in  this  afflicted  man. 

Forthwith  there  was  prepared  a  grand  repast, 
To  satisfy  the  craving  of  the  friar 

After  so  rigid  and  prolonged  a  fast ; 

The  bustling  housewife  stirred  the  kitchen 
fire ; 

Then  her  two  favorite  pullets  and  her  last 
Were  put  to  death,  at  her  express  desire, 

And  served  up  with  a  salad  in  a  bowl, 

And  flasks  of  country  wine  to  crown  the  whole. 

It  would  not  be  believed  should  I  repeat 
How  hungry  Brother  Timothy  appeared  ; 


74  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

It  was  a  pleasure  but  to  see  him  eat, 

His  white  teeth  flashing  through  his  russet 

beard, 

His  face  aglow  and  flushed  with  wine  and  meat, 
His  roguish  eyes  that  rolled  and  laughed  and 

leered ! 

Lord  !  how  he  drank  the  blood- red  country  wine 
As  if  the  village  vintage  were  divine  ! 

And  all  the  while  he  talked  without  surcease, 
And  told  his  merry  tales  with  jovial  glee 

That  never  flagged,  but  rather  did  increase, 
And  laughed  aloud  as  if  insane  were  he, 

And  wagged  his  red  beard,  matted  like  a  fleece, 
And  cast  such  glances  at  Dame  Cicely 

That  Gilbert  now  grew  angry  with  his  guest, 

And  thus  in  words  his  rising  wrath  expressed. 

"  Good  father,"  said  he,  "  easily  we  see 

How  needful  in  some  persons,  and  how  right, 


THE    MONK    OF    CASAL-MAGGIORE.  75 

Mortification  of  the  flesh  may  be. 

The  indulgence  you  have  given  it  to-night, 
After  long  penance,  clearly  proves  to  me 

Your    strength    against    temptation    is    but 

slight, 

And  shows  the  dreadful  peril  you  are  in 
Of  a  relapse  into  your  deadly  sin. 

"  To-morrow  morning,  with  the  rising  sun, 
Go  back  unto  your  convent,  nor  refrain 

From  fasting  and  from  scourging,  for  you  run 
Great  danger  to  become  an  ass  again, 

Since  monkish  flesh  and  asinine  are  one ; 
Therefore  be  wise,  nor  longer  here  remain, 

Unless  you  wish  the  scourge  should  be  applied 

By  other  hands,  that  will  not  spare  your  hide." 

When  this  the  monk  had  heard,  his  color  fled 
And  then  returned,  like  lightning  in  the  air, 

Till  he  was  all  one  blush  from  foot  to  head, 
And  even  the  bald  spot  in  his  russet  hair 


76  TALES    OF  A    WAYSIDE 

Turned  from  its  usual  pallor  to  bright  red  ! 

The  old  man  was  asleep  upon  his  chair. 
Then  all  retired,  and  sank  into  the  deep 
And  helpless  imbecility  of  sleep. 

They  slept  until  the  dawn  of  day  drew  near, 
Till  the  cock  should  have  crowed,  but  did  not 
crow, 

For  they  had  slain  the  shining  chanticleer 
And  eaten  him  for  supper,  as  you  know. 

The  monk  was  up  betimes  and  of  good  cheer, 
And,  having  breakfasted,  made  haste  to  go, 

As  if  he  heard  the  distant  matin  bell, 

And  had  but  little  time  to  say  farewell. 

Fresh  was  the  morning  as  the  breath  of  kine  ; 

Odors  of  herbs  commingled  with  the  sweet 
Balsamic  exhalations  of  the  pine  ; 

A  haze  was  in  the  air  presaging  heat ; 
Uprose  the  sun  above  the  Apennine, 

And  all  the  misty  valleys  at  its  feet 


THE    MONK    OF    CASAL-MAGGIORE.  77 

Were  full  of  the  delirious  song  of  birds, 
Voices  of  men,  and  bells,  and  low  of  herds. 

All  this  to  Brother  Timothy  was  naught ; 

He  did  not  care  for  scenery,  nor  here 
His  busy  fancy  found  the  thing  it  sought ; 

But  when  he  saw  the  convent  walls  appear, 
And   smoke   from  kitchen   chimneys   upward 
caught 

And  whirled  aloft  into  the  atmosphere, 
He  quickened  his  slow  footsteps,  like  a  beast 
That  scents  the  stable  a  league  off  at  least. 

And  as  he  entered  through  the  convent  gate 
He  saw  there  in  the  court  the  ass,  who  stood 

Twirling  his  ears  about,  and  seemed  to  wait, 
Just  as  he  found  him  waiting  in"  the  wood ; 

And  told  the  Prior  that,  to  alleviate 
The  daily  labors  of  the  brotherhood, 

The  owner,  being  a  man  of  means  and  thrift, 

Bestowed  him  on  the  convent  as  a  gift. 


78  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

And  thereupon  the  Prior  for  many  days 
Revolved  this  serious  matter  in  his  mind, 

And  turned  it  over  many  different  ways, 
Hoping  that  some  safe  issue  he  might  find  ; 

But  stood  in  fear  of  what  the  world  would  say, 
If  he  accepted  presents  of  this  kind, 

Employing  beasts  of  burden  for  the  packs 

That  lazy  monks  should  carry  on  their  backs. 

Then,  to  avoid  all  scandal  of  the  sort, 
And  stop  the  mouth  of  cavil,  he  decreed 

That  he  would  cut  the  tedious  matter  short, 
And  sell  the  ass  with  all  convenient  speed, 

Thus  saving  the  expense  of  his  support, 

And  hoarding  something  for  a  time  of  need. 

So  he  despatched  him  to  the  neighboring  Fair, 

And  freed  himself  from  cumber  and  from  care. 

It  happened  now  by  chance,  as  some  might  say, 
Others  perhaps  would  call  it  destiny, 


THE   MONK   OF    CASAL-MAGGIOKE.  79 

Gilbert  was  at  the  Fair  ;  and  heard  a  bray, 
And  nearer  came,  and  saw  that  it  was  he, 

And  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  Ah,  lackaday  ! 
Good  father,  the  rebellious  flesh,  I  see, 

Has  changed  you  back  into  an  ass  again, 

And  all  my  admonitions  were  in  vain." 

The  ass,  who  felt  this  breathing  in  his  ear, 
Did  not  turn  round  to  look,  but  shook  his 
head, 

As  if  he  were  not  pleased  these  words  to  hear, 
And  contradicted  all  that  had  been  said. 

And  this  made  Gilbert  cry  in  voice  more  clear, 
"  I  know  you  well ;  your  hair  is  russet-red  ; 

Do  not  deny  it ;  for  you  are  the  same 

Franciscan  friar,  and  Timothy  by  name." 

0 

The  ass,  though  now  the  secret  had  come  out, 
"Was  obstinate,  and  shook  his  head  again ; 

Until  a  crowd  was  gathered  round  about 
To  hear  this  dialogue  between  the  twain  ; 


80  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

And  raised  their  voices  in  a  noisy  shout 

"When  Gilbert  tried  to  make  the  matter  plain, 
And  flouted  him  and  mocked  him  all  day  long 
"With  laughter  and  with  jibes  and  scraps  of  song. 

"  If  this  be  Brother  Timothy,"  they  cried, 
"  Buy  him,  and  feed   him  on  the  tenderest 
grass ; 

Thou  canst  not  do  too  much  for  one  so  tried 
As  to  be  twice  transformed  into  an  ass." 

So  simple  Gilbert  bought  him,  and  untied 
His  halter,  and  o'er  mountain  and  morass 

He  led  him  homeward,  talking  as  he  went 

Of  good  behavior  and  a  mind  content. 

The  children  saw  them  coming,  and  advanced, 
Shouting  with  joy,  and  hung  about  his 
neck,  — 

Not  Gilbert's,  but  the  ass's, — round  him  danced, 
And  wove  green  garlands  wherewithal  to  deck 


THE    MONK    OF    CASAL-MAGGIORE.  81 

His  sacred  person  ;  for  again  it  chanced 

Their  childish  feelings,  without  rein  or  check, 
Could  not  discriminate  in  any  way 
A  donkey  from  a  friar  of  Orders  Gray. 

"  0  Brother  Timothy,"  the  children  said, 
"  You  have  come  back  to  us  just  as  before  ; 

We  were   afraid,  and  thought  that   you  were 

dead, 
And  we  should  never  see  you  any  more." 

And  then  they  kissed  the  white  star  on  his  head, 
That  like  a  birth-mark  or  a  badge  he  wore, 

And  patted  him  upon  the  neck  and  face, 

And  said  a  thousand  things  with  childish  grace. 

Thenceforward  and  forever  he  was  known 
As  Brother  Timothy,  and  led  alway 

A  life  of  luxury,  till  he  had  grown 

Ungrateful,  being  stuffed  with  corn  and  hay, 

And  very  vicious.     Then  in  angry  tone, 
Rousing  himself,  poor  Gilbert  said  one  day, 


82  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INX. 

"  When  simple  kindness  i's  misunderstood 
A  little  flagellation  may  do  good." 

His  many  vices  need  not  here  be  told ; 

Among  them  was  a  habit  that  he  had 
-Of  flinging  up  his  heels  at  young  and  old, 

Breaking  his  halter,  running  off  like  mad 
O'er    pasture-lands   and   meadow,   wood    and 
wold, 

And  other  misdemeanors  quite  as  bad ; 
But  worst  of  all  w:as  breaking  from  his  shed 
At  night,  and  ravaging  the  cabbage-bed. 

So  Brother  Timothy  went  back  once  more 
To  his  old  life  of  labor  and  distress ; 

Was  beaten  worse  than  he  had  been  before ; 
And  now,  instead  of  comfort  and  caress, 

Came  labors  manifold  and  trials  sore ; 
And  as  his  toils  increased  his  food  grew  less, 

Until  at  last  tlje  great  consoler,  Death, 

Ended  his  many  sufferings  with  his  breath. 


THE    MONK   OF    CASAL-MAGGIORE.  83 

Great  was  the  lamentation  when  he  died ; 

And  mainly  that  he  died  impenitent ; 
Dame  Cicely  bewailed,  the  children  cried, 

The  old  man  still  remembered  the  event 
In  the  French  war,  and  Gilbert  magnified 

His  many  virtues,  as  he  came  and  went, 
And  said  :  "  Heaven  pardon  Brother  Timothy, 
And  keep  us  from  the  sin  of  gluttony." 


INTEELUDE. 

"  SIGNOR  LUIGI,"  said  the  Jew, 
When  the  Sicilian's  tale  was  told, 
"  The  were-wolf  is  a  legend  old, 
But  the  were-ass  is  something  new, 
And  yet  for  one  I  think  it  true. 
The  days  of  wonder  have  not  ceased ; 
If  there  are  beasts  in  forms  of  men, 
As  sure  it  happens  now  and  then, 
Why  may  not  man  become  a  beast, 
In  way  of  punishment  at  least  ? 

"  But  this  I  will  not  now  discuss ; 
I  leave  the  theme,  that  we  may  thus 
Remain  within  the  realm  of  song. 


INTERLUDE.  85 

The  story  that  I  told  before, 

Though  not  acceptable  to  all, 

At  least  you  did  not  find  too  long. 

I  beg  you,  let  me  try  again, 

With  something  in  a  different  vein, 

Before  you  bid  the  curtain  fall. 

Meanwhile  keep  watch  upon  the  door^ 

Nor  let  the  Landlord  leave  his  chair, 

Lest  he  should  vanish  into  air, 

And  thus  elude  our  search  once  more." 

Thus  saying,  from  his  lips  he  blew 
A  little  cloud  of  perfumed  breath, 
And  then,  as  if  it  were  a  clew 
To  lead  his  footsteps  safely  through, 
Began  his  tale  as  followeth. 


THE  SPANISH  JEW'S   SECOND  TALE. 

SCANDEEBEG. 

THE  battle  is  fought  and  won 
By  King  Ladislaus  the  Hun, 
In  fire  of  hell  and  death's  frost, 
On  the  day  of  Pentecost. 
And  in  rout  before  his  path 
From  the  field  of  battle  red 
Flee  all  that  are  not  dead 
Of  the'  army  of  Amurath. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night 
Iskander,  the  pride  and  boast 
Of  that  mighty  Othman  host, 
With  his  routed  Turks,  takes  flight 
From  the  battle  fought  and  lost 


SCAtfDEEBEG.  87 

On  the  day  of  Pentecost ; 
Leaving  behind  him  dead 
The  army  of  Amurath, 
The  vanguard  as  it  led, 
The  rearguard  as  it  fled, 
Mown  down  in  the  bloody  swath 
Of  the  battle's  aftermath. 

But  he  cared  not  for  Hospodars, 
Nor  for  Baron  or  Voivode, 
As  on  through  the  night  he  rode 
And  gazed  at  the  fateful  stars, 
That  were  shining  overhead  ; 
But  smote  his  steed  with  his  staff, 
And  smiled  to  himself,  and  said : 
"  This  is  the  time  to  laugh." 

In  the  middle  of  the  night ,( 

In  a  halt  of  the  hurrying  flight, 

There  came  a  Scribe  of  the  King 


TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Wearing  his  signet  ring, 
And  said  in  a  voice  severe  : 
"  This  is  the  first  dark  blot 
On  thy  name,  George  Castriot ! 
Alas  !  why  art  thou  here, 
And  the  army  of  Amurath  slain, 
And  left  on  the  battle  plain  ?  " 

And  Iskander  answered  and  said  : 
"  They  lie  on  the  bloody  sod 
By  the  hoofs  of  horses  trod  ; 
But  this  was  the  decree 
Of  the  watchers  overhead  ; 
For  the  war  belongeth  to  God, 
And  in  battle  who  are  we, 
Who  are  we,  that  shall  withstand 
The  wind  of  his  lifted  hand  ?  " 

Then  he  bade  them  bind  with  chains 
This  man  of  books  and  brains  ; 


SCANDERBEG.  89 

And  the  Scribe  said  :  "  What  misdeed 
Have  I  done,  that  without  need, 
Thou  doest  to  me  this  thing  ?  " 
And  Iskander  answering 
Said  unto  him  :  "  Not  one 
Misdeed  to  me  hast  tliou  done ; 
But  for  fear  that  thoti  shouldst  run 
And  hide  thyself  from  me, 
Have  I  done  this  unto  thee. 


"  Now  write  me  a  writing,  0  Scribe, 

And  a  blessing  be  on  thy  tribe  ! 

A  writing  sealed  with  thy  ring, 

To  King  Amurath's  Pasha 

In  the  city  of  Croia, 

The  city  moated  and  walled, 

That  he  surrender  the  same 

In  the  name  of  my  master,  the  King ; 

For  what  is  writ  in  his  name 

Can  never  be  recalled." 


DO  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INX. 

And  the  Scribe  bowed  low  in  dread, 
And  unto  Iskander  said  : 
u  Allah  is  great  and  just, 
But  we  are  as  ashes  and  dust ; 
How  shall  I  do  this  thing, 
When  I  know  that  mj  guilty  head 
Will  be  forfeit  to  the  King  ?  " 


Then  swift  as  a  shooting  star 

The  curved  and  shining  blade 

Of  Iskander's  scimetar 

From  its  sheath,  with  jewels  bright, 

Shot,  as  he  thundered :  u  Write !  " 

And  the  trembling  Scribe  obeyed, 

And  wrote  in  the  fitful  glare 

Of  the  bivouac  fire  apart, 

With  the  chill  of  the  midnight  air 

On  his.  forehead  white  and  bare, 

And  the  chill  of  death  in  his  heart. 


91 


Then  again  Iskander  cried  : 
"  Now  follow  whither  I  ride, 
For  here  thou  must  not  stay. 
Thou  shalt  be  as  my  dearest  friend, 
And  honors  without  end 
Shall  surround  thee  on  every  side, 
And  attend  thee  night  and  day." 
But  the  sullen  Scribe  replied  : 
"  Our  pathways  here  divide  ; 
Mine  leadeth  not  thy  way." 

And  even  as  he  spoke 

Fell  a  sudden  scirnetar  stroke, 

When  no  one  else  was  near  ; 

And  the  Scribe  sank  to  the  ground, 

As  a  stone,  pushed  from  the  brink 

Of  a  black  pool,  might  sink 

With  a  sob  and  disappear  ; 

And  no  one  saw  the  deed  ; 

And  in  the  stillness  around 


92  TALES    OF   A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

No  sound  was  heard  but  the  sound 
Of  the  hoofs  of  Iskander's  steed, 
As  forward  he  sprang  with  a  bound. 

Then  onward  he  rode  and  afar, 
With  scarce  three  hundred  men, 
Through  river  and  forest  and  fen, 
O'er  the  mountains  of  Argentar ; 
And  his  heart  was  merry  within, 
When  he  crossed  the  river  Drin, 
And  saw  in  the  gleam  of  the  morn 
The  White  Castle  Ak-Hissar, 
The  city  Croia  called, 
The  city  moated  and  walled, 
The  city  where  he  was  born,— 
And  above  it  the  morning  star. 

Then  his  trumpeters  in  the  van 
On  their  silver  bugles  blew, 
And  in  crowds  about  him  ran 


SCANDERBEG. 

Albanian  and  Turkoman, 
That  the  sound  together  drew. 
And  he  feasted  with  his  friends, 
And  when  they  were  warm  with  wine, 
He  said  :  "  0  friends  of  mine, 
Behold  what  fortune  sends, 
And  what  the  fates  design  ! 
King  Amu  rath  commands 
That  my  father's  wide  domain, 
This  city  and  all  its  lands, 
Shall  be  given  to  me  again." 

Then  to  the  Castle  White 
He  rode  in  regal  state, 
And  entered  in  at  the  gate 
In  all  his  arms  bedight, 
And  gave  to  the  Pasha 
Who  ruled  in  Croia 
The  writing  of  the  King, 
Sealed  with  his  signet  ring. 


94  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

And  the  Pasha  bowed  his  head, 
And  after  a  silence  said : 
"  Allah  is  just  and  great ! 
I  yield  to  the  will  divine, 
T,he  city  and  lands  are  thine ; 
Who  shall  contend  with  fate  ?  " 

Anon  from  the  castle  walls 

The  crescent  banner  falls, 

And  the  crowd  beholds  instead, 

Like  a  portent  in  the  sky, 

Iskander's  banner  fly, 

The  Black  Eagle  with  double  head ; 

And  a  shout  ascends  on  high, 

For  men's  souls  are  tired  of  the  Turks, 

And  their  wicked  ways  and'  works, 

That  have  made  of  Ak-Hissar 

A  city  of  the  plague  ; 

And  the  loud,  exultant  cry 

That  echoes  wide  and  far 

Is  :  "  Long  live  Scandcrbeg !  " 


SCANDERBEG.  95 

It  was  thus  Iskander  came 

Once  more  unto  his  own  ; 

And  the  tidings,  like  the  flame 

Of  a  conflagration  blown 

By  the  winds  of  summer,  ran, 

Till  the  land  was  in  a  blaze, 

And  the  cities  far  and  near, 

Sayeth  Ben  Joshua  Ben  Meir, 

In  his  Book  of  the  Words  of  the  Days, 

"  Were  taken  as  a  man 

Would  take  the  tip  of  his  ear." 


INTERLUDE. 

"  Now  that  is  after  my  own  heart," 
Tlie  Poet  cried  ;  "  one  understands 
Your  swarthy  hero  Scanderbcg, 
Gauntlet  on  hand  and  boot  on  leg, 
And  skilled  in  every  warlike  art, 
Riding  through  his  Albanian  lands, 
And  following  the  auspicious  star 
That  shone  for  him  o'er  Ak-Hissar." 

The  Theologian  added  here 

His  word  of  praise  not  less  sincere, 

Although  he  ended  with  a  jibe  ; 

"  The  hero  of  romance  and  song 

Was  horn,"  he  said,  "  to  right  the  wrong ; 


INTERLUDE.  97 

And  1  approve  ;  but  all  the  same 
That  bit  of  treason  with  the  Scribe 
Adds  nothing  to  your  hero's  fame." 

The  Student  praised  the  good  old  times, 
And  liked  the  canter  of  the  rhymes, 
That  had  a  hoof  beat  in  their  sound ; 
But  longed  some  further  word  to  hear 
Of  the  old  chronicler  Ben  Meir, 
And  where  his  volume  might  be  found. 
The  tall  Musician  walked  the  room 
With  folded  arms  and  gleaming  eyes, 
As  if  he  saw  the  Vikings  rise, 
Gigantic  shadows  in  the  gloom  ; 
And  much  he  talked  of  their  emprise, 
And  meteors  seen  in  Northern  skies, 
And  HeimdaPs  horn,  and  day  of  doom. 
But  the  Sicilian  laughed  again  ; 
"  This  is  the  time  to  laugh,"  he  said, 
For  the  whole  story  he  well  knew 
Was  an  invention  of  the  Jew, 


98  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    LNIST. 

Spun  from  the  cobwebs  in  liis  brain, 
And  of  the  same  bright  scarlet  thread 
As  was  the  Tale  of  Kambalu. 

Only  the  Landlord  spake  no  word ; 
'T  was  doubtful  whether  he  had  heard 
The  tale  at  all,  so  full  of  care 
Was  he  of  his  impending  fate, 
That,  like  the  sword  of  Damocles, 
Above  his  head  hung  blank  and  bare, 
Suspended  by  a  single  hair, 
So  that  he  could  not  sit  at  ease, 
But  sighed  and  looked  disconsolate, 
And  shifted  restless  in  his  chair, 
Revolving  how  he  might  evade 
The  blow  of  the  descending  blade. 

The  Student  came  to  his  relief 

By  saying  in  his  easy  way 

To  the  Musician  :  "  Calm  your  grief, 


INTERLUDE.  99 

My  fair  Apollo  of  the  North, 
Balder  the  Beautiful  and  so  forth ; 
Although  your  magic  lyre  or  lute 
With  broken  strings  is  lying  mute, 
Still  you  can  tell  some  doleful  tale 
Of  shipwreck  in  a  midnight  gale, 
Or  something  of  the  kind  to  suit 
The  mood  that  we  are  in  to-night 
For  what  is  marvellous  and  strange  ; 
So  give  your  nimble  fancy  range, 
And  we  will  follow  in  its  flight." 

But  the  Musician  shook  his  head  ; 
"  No  tale  I  tell  to-night,"  he  said, 
"  While  my  poor  instrument  lies  there, 
Even  as  a  child  with  vacant  stare 
Lies  in  its  little  coffin  dead." 

Yet,  being  urged,  he  said  at  last : 
"  There  comes  to  me  out  of  the  Past 


100  TALES    OF   A    WAYSIDE 

A  voice,  whose  tones  are  sweet  and  wild, 

Singing  a  song  almost  divine, 

And  with  a  tear  in  every  line ; 

An  ancient  ballad,  that  my  nurse 

Sang  to  me  when  I  was  a  child, 

In  accents  tender  as  the  verse  ; 

And  sometimes  wept,  and  sometimes  smiled 

While  singing  it,  to  see  arise 

The  look  of  wonder  in  my  eyes, 

And  feel  my  heart  with  terror  beat. 

This  simple  ballad  I  retain 

Clearly  imprinted  on  my  brain, 

And  as  a  tale  will  now  repeat." 


THE    MUSICIAN'S     TALE, 
THE  MOTHER'S  GHOST. 

SVEND  DYEING  he  ridetli  adown  the  glade  ; 

/  myself  was  young- ! 
There  he  hath  wooed  him  so  winsome  a  maid ; 

Fair  words  gladden  so  many  a  heart. 

Together  were  they  for  seven  years, 
And  together  children  six  were  theirs. 

Then  came  Death  abroad  through  the  land, 
And  blighted  the  beautiful  lily-wand. 

Svend  Dyring  he  rideth  adown  the  glade, 
And  again  hath  he  wooed  him  another  maid. 


102  TALES    OF    A    AV  AY  SIDE    INN. 

He  hath  wooed  him  a  maid  and  brought  home 

a  bride, 
But  she  was  bitter  and  full  of  pride. 

When  she  came  driving  into  the  yard, 
There  stood  the  six  children  weeping  so  hard. 

There  stood  the  small  children  with  sorrowful 

heart ; 
From  before  her  feet  she  thrust  them  apart. 

She  gave  to  them  neither  ale  nor  bread  ; 

"  Ye  shall  suffer  hunger  and  hate,"  she  said. 

She  took  from  them  their  quilts  of  blue, 

And  said  :  "  Ye  shall  lie  on  the  straw  we  strew." 

She  took  from  them  the  great  waxlight ; 
"  Now  ye  shall  lie  in  the  dark  at  night." 


103 

In  the  evening  late  they  cried  with  cold ; 
The  mother  heard  it  under  the  mould. 

The  woman  heard  it  the  earth  below : 
"  To  my  little  children  I  must  go.'7 

She  standeth  before  the  Lord  of  all : 

"  And  may  I  go  to  my  children  small  ?  " 

She  prayed  him  so  long,  and  would  not  cease, 
Until  he  bade  her  depart  in  peace. 

"  At  cock-crow  thou  shalt  return  again ; 
Longer  thou  shalt  not  there  remain  !  " 

She  girded  up  her  sorrowful  bones, 

And  rifted  the  walls  and  the  marble  stones. 

As  through  the  village  she  flitted  by, 
The  watch-dogs  howled  aloud  to  the  sky. 


104  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INX. 

When  she  came  to  the  castle  gate, 
There  stood  her  eldest  daughter  in  wait. 

"  Why  standest  thou  here,  dear  daughter  mine  ? 
How  fares  it  with  brothers  and  sisters  thine  ?  " 

"  Never  art  thou  mother  of  mine, 
For  my  mother  was  both  fair  and  fine. 

"  My  mother  was  white,  with  cheeks  of  red, 
But  thou  art  pale,  and  like  to  the  dead." 

"  How  should  I  be  fair  and  fine  ? 

I  have  been  dead ;  pale  cheeks  arc  mine. 

"  How  should  I  be  white  and  red, 
So  long,  so  long  have  I  been  dead  ?  " 

When  she  came  in  at  the  chamber  door, 
There  stood  the  small  children  weeping  sore. 


105 

One  she  braided,  another  she  brushed, 
The  third  she  lifted,  the  fourth  she  hushed. 

The  fifth  she  took  on  her  lap  and  pressed, 
As  if  she  would 'suckle  it  at  her  breast. 

Then  to  her  eldest  daughter  said  she, 

"  Do  thou  bid  Svend  Dyring  come  hither  to  me." 

Into  the  chamber  when  he  came 

She  spake  to  him  in  anger  and  shame. 

"  I  left  behind  me  both  ale  and  bread ; 
My  children  hunger  and  are  not  fed. 

u  I  left  behind  me  quilts  of  blue  ; 
My  children  lie  on  the  straw  ye  strew. 

"  I  left  behind  me  the  great  waxlight ; 
My  children  lie  in  the  dark  at  night. 

5* 


106  TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE 

"  If  I  come  again  unto  your  hall, 
As  cruel  a  fate  shall  you  befall ! 

"  Now  crows  the  cock  with  feathers  red ; 
Back  to  the  earth  must  all  the  dead. 

"  Now  crows  the  cock  with  feathers  swart ; 
The  gates  of  heaven  fly  wide  apart. 

"  Now  crows  the  cock  with  feathers  white ; 
I  can  abide  no  longer  to-night." 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs  wail, 
They  gave  the  children  bread  and  ale. 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs  bay, 
They  feared  lest  the  dead  were  on  their  way. 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs  bark ; 

I  my  self  was  young  ! 
They  feared  the  dead  out  there  in  the  dark. 

Fair  'words  gladden  so  many  a  heart,. 


INTERLUDE. 

TOUCHED  by  the  pathos  of  these  rhymes, 
The  Theologian  said  :  "  All  praise 
Be  to  the  ballads  of  old  times 
And  to  the  bards  of  simple  ways, 
Who  walked  with  Nature  hand  in  hand, 
Whose  country  was  their  Holy  Land, 
Whose  singing  robes  were  homespun  brown 
From  looms  of  their  own  native  town, 
Which  they  were  not  ashamed  to  wear, 
And  not  of  silk  or  sendal  gay, 
Nor  decked  with  fanciful  array 
Of  cockle-shells  from  Outre-Mer." 

To  whom  the  student  answered  :  "  Yes  ; 
All  praise  and  honor  !     I  confess 


108  TALES    OF   A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

That  bread  and  ale,  home-baked,  home-brewed, 

Are  wholesome  and  nutritious  food, 

But  not  enough  for  all  our  needs ; 

Poets  —  the  best  of  them  —  are  birds 

Of  passage ;  where  their  instinct  leads 

They  range  abroad  for  thoughts  and  words, 

And  from  all  climes  bring  home  the  seeds 

That  germinate  in  flowers  or  weeds. 

They  are  not  fowls  in  barnyards  born 

To  cackle  o'er  a  grain  of  corn ; 

And,  if  you  shut  the  horizon  down 

To  the  small  limits  of  their  town, 

What  do  you  but  degrade  your  bard 

Till  he  at  last  becomes  as  one 

Who  thinks  the  all-encircling  sun 

Rises  and  sets  in  his  back  yard  ? " 

The  Theologian  said  again  :  « 

"  It  may  be  so  ;  yet  I  maintain 
That  what  is  native  still  is  best, 


INTERLUDE.  109 

And  little  care  I  for  the  rest. 
'T  is  a  long  story  ;  time  would  fail 
To  tell  it,  and  the  hour  is  late  ; 
We  will  not  waste  it  in  debate, 
But  listen  to  our  Landlord's  tale." 

And  thus  the  sword  of  Damocles 
Descending  not  by  slow  degrees, 
But  suddenly,  on  the  Landlord  fell, 
Who  blushing,  and  with  much  demur 
And  many  vain  apologies, 
Plucking  up  heart,  began  to  tell 
The  Rhyme  of  one  Sir  Christopher. 


THE  LANDLORD'S  TALE. 

THE    RHYME    OF    SIR   CHRISTOPHER. 

IT  was  Sir  Christopher  Gardiner, 
Knight  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
From  Merry  England  over  the  sea, 
Who  stepped  upon  this  continent 
As  if  his  august  presence  lent 
A  glory  to  the  colony. 

You  should  .have  seen  him  in  the  street 
Of  the  little  Boston  of  Winthrop's  time, 
His  rapier  dangling  at  his  feet, 
Doublet  and  hose  and  boots  complete, 
Prince  Rupert  hat  with  ostrich  plume, 
Gloves  that  exhaled  a  faint  perfume, 
Luxuriant  curls  and  air  sublime, 
And  superior  manners  now  obsolete  ! 


THE    RHYME    OF    SIR   CHRISTOPHER.  Ill 

He  had  a  way  of  saying  things 

That  made  one  think  of  courts  and  kings, 

And  lords  and  ladies  of  high  degree  ; 

So  that  not  having  been  at  court 

Seemed  something  very  little  short 

Of  treason  or  lese-majesty, 

Such  an  accomplished  knight  was  he. 

His  dwelling  was  just  beyond  the  town, 
At  what  he  called  his  country-seat ; 
For,  careless  of  Fortune's  smile  or  frown, 
And  weary  grown  of  the  world  and  its  ways, 
He  wished  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  days 
In  a  private  life  and  a  calm  retreat. 

qt 

But  a  double  life  was  the  life  he  led, 
And,  while  professing  to  be  in  search 
Of  a  godly  course,  and  willing,  he  said, 
Nay,  anxious  to  join  the  Puritan  church, 
He  made  of  all  this  but  small  account, 


112  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

And  passed  his  idle  hours  instead 

With  roystering  Morton  of  Merry  Mount, 

That  pettifogger  from  Furnival's  Inn, 

Lord  of  misrule  and  riot  and  sin, 

Who  looked  on  the  wine  when  it  was  red. 

This  country-seat  was  little  more 
Than  a  cabin  of  logs  ;  but  in  front  of  the  door 
A  modest  flower-bed  thickly  sown 
With  sweet  alyssum  and  columbine 
Made  those  who  saw  it  at  once  divine 
The  touch  of  some  other  hand  than  his  own. 
And  first  it  was  whispered,  and  then  it  was 
known, 

That  he  in  secret  was  harboring  there 

<f 

A  little  lady  with  golden  hair, 

Whom  he  called  his  cousin,  but  whom  he  had 

wed 

In  the  Italian  manner,  as  men  said, 
And  great  was  the  scandal  everywhere. 


THE- RHYME    OF    SIR    CHRISTOPHER.  113 

But  worse  than  this  was  the  vague  surmise, 
Though  none  could  vouch  for  it  or  aver, 
That  the  Knight  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
Was  only  a  Papist  in  disguise ; 
And  the  more  to  embitter  their  bitter  lives, 
And  the  more  to  trouble  the  public  mind, 
Came  letters  from  England,  from  two  other 

wives, 

Whom  he  had  carelessly  left  behind  ; 
Both  of  them  letters  of  such  a  kind 
As  made  the  governor  hold  his  breath  ; 
The  one  imploring  him  straight  to  send 
The  husband  home,  that  he  might  amend ; 
The  other  asking  his  instant  death, 
As  the  only  way  to  make  an  end. 

The  wary  governor  deemed  it  right, 
When  all  this  wickedness  was  revealed, 
To  send  his  warrant  signed  and  sealed, 
And  take  the  body  of  the  knight. 


114  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN. 

Armed  with  this  mighty  instrument, 
The  marshal,  mounting  his  gallant  steed, 
Rode  forth  from  town  at  the  top  of  his  speed, 
And  followed  by  all  his  bailiffs  bold, 
As  if  on  high  achievement  bent, 
To  storm  some  castle  or  stronghold, 
Challenge  the  warders  on  the  wall, 
And  seize  in  his  ancestral  hall 
A  robber-baron  grim  and  old. 

But  when  through  all  the  dust  and  heat 
He  came  to  Sir  Christopher's  country-seat, 
No  knight  he  found,  nor  warder  there, 
.   But  the  little  lady  with  golden  hair, 
Who  was  gathering  in  the  bright  sunshine 
The  sweet  alyssum  and  columbine ; 
While  gallant  Sir  Christopher,  all  so  gay, 
Being  forewarned,  through  the  postern  gate 
Of  his  castle  wall  had  tripped  away, 
And  was  keeping  a  little  holiday 
In  the  forests,  that  bounded  his  estate. 


THE    RHYME    OF    SIR    CHRISTOPHER.  115 

Then  as  a  trusty  squire  and  true 
The  marshal  searched  the  castle  through, 
Not  crediting  what  the  lady  said  ; 
Searched  from  cellar  to  garret  in  vain, 
And,  finding  no  knight,  came  out  again 
And  arrested  the  golden  damsel  instead, 
And  bore  her  in  triumph  into  the  town, 
While  from  her  eyes  the  tears  rolled  down 
On  the  sweet  alyssum  and  columbine, 
That  she  held  in  her  fingers  white  and  fine. 

The  governor's  heart  was  moved  to  see 
So  fair  a  creature  caught  within 
The  snares  of  Satan  and  of  sin, 
And  read  her  a  little  homily 
On  the  folly  and  wickedness  of  the  lives 
Of  women,  half  cousins  and  half  wives  ; 
But,  seeing  that  naught  his  words  availed, 
He  sent  her  away  in  a  ship  that  sailed 
For  Merry  England  over  the  sea, 


116  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE 

To  the  other  two  wives  in  the  old  countree, 
To  searcli  her  further,  since  he  had  failed 
To  come  at  the  heart  of  the  mystery. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Christopher  wandered  away 
Through  pathless  woods  for  a  month  and  a  day, 
Shooting  pigeons,  and  sleeping  at  night 
With  the  noble  savage,  who  took  delight 
In  his  feathered  hat  and  his  velvet  vest. 
His  gun  and  his  rapier  and  the  rest. 
But  as  soon  as  the  noble  savage  heard 
That  a  bounty  was  offered  for  this  gay  bird, 
He  wanted  to  slay  him  out  of  hand, 
And  bring  in  his  beautiful  scalp  for  a  show, 
Like  the  glossy  head  of  a  kite  or  crow, 
Until  he  was  made  to  understand 
They  wanted  the  bird  alive,  not  dead ; 
Then  he  followed  him  whithersoever  he  fled, 
Through  forest  and  field,  and  hunted  him  down, 
And  brought  him  prisoner  into  the  town. 


THE    RHYME    OF    SIR   CHRISTOPHER.  117 

Alas  !  it  was  a  rueful  sight, 

To  see  this  melancholy  knight 

In  such  a  dismal  and  hapless  case  ; 

His  hat  deformed  by  stain  and  dent, 

His  plumage  broken,  his  doublet  rent, 

His  beard  and  flowing  locks  forlorn, 

Matted,  dishevelled,  and  unshorn, 

His  boots  with  dust  and  mire  besprent ; 

But  dignified  in  his  disgrace, 

And  wearing  an  unblushing  face. 

And  thus  before  the  magistrate 

He  stood  to  hear  the  doom  of  fate. 

In  vain  he  strove  with  wonted  ease 

To  modify  and  extenuate 

His  evil  deeds  in  church  and  state, 

For  gone  was  now  his  power  to  please ; 

And  his  pompous  words  had  no  more  weight 

Than  feathers  flying  in  the  breeze. 

With  suavity  equal  to  his  own 
The  governor  lent  a  patient  car 


118  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    INN". 

To  the  speech  evasive  and  highflown, 
In  which  he  endeavored  to  make  clear 
That  colonial  laws  were  too  severe 
When  applied  to  a  gallant  cavalier, 
A  gentleman  born,  and  so  well  known, 
And  accustomed  to  move  in  a  higher  sphere. 

All  this  the  Puritan  governor  heard, 
And  deigned  in  answer  never  a  word ; 
But  in  summary  manner  shipped  away 
In  a  vessel  that  sailed  from  Salem  bay, 
This  splendid  and  famous  cavalier, 
With  his  Rupert  hat  and  his  popery, 
To  Merry  England  over  the  sea, 
As  being  unmeet  to  inhabit  here. 

Thus  endeth  the  Rhyme  of  Sir  Christopher, 
Knight  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
The  first  who  furnished  this  barren  land 
With  apples  of  Sodom  and  ropes  of  sand. 


FINALE. 

THESE  are  the  tales  those  merry  guests 
Told  to  each  other,  well  or  ill ; 
Like  summer  birds  that  lift  their  crests 
Above  the  borders  of  their  nests 
And  twitter,  and  again  are  still. 

These  arc  the  tales,  or  new  or  old, 
In  idle  moments  idly  told  ; 
Flowers  of  the  field  with  petals  thin, 
Lilies  that  neither  toil  nor  spin, 
And  tufts  of  wayside  weeds  and  gorse 
Hung  in  the  parlor  of  the  inn 
Beneath  the  sign  of  the  Red  Horse. 

And  still,  reluctant  to  retire, 
The  friends  sat  talking  bv  the  fire 


120  TALES    OF    A    WAYSIDE    1NX. 

And  watched  the  smouldering  embers  burn 

To  ashes,  and  flash  up  again 

Into  a  momentary  glow, 

Lingering  like  them  when  forced  to  go, 

And  going  when  they  would  remain  ; 

For  on  the  morrow  they  must  turn 

Their  faces  homeward,  and  the  pain 

Of  parting  touched  with  its  unrest 

A  tender  nerve  in  every  breast. 

But  sleep  at  last  the  victory  won  ; 
They  must  be  stirring  with  the  sun, 
And  drowsily  good  night  they  said, 
And  went  still  gossiping  to  bed, 
And  left  the  parlor  wrapped  in  gloom. 
The  only  live  thing  in  the  room 
Was  the  old  clock,  that  in  its  pace 
Kept  time  with  the  revolving  spheres 
And  constellations  in  their  flight, 
And  struck  with  its  uplifted  mace 


FINALE.  121 

The  dark,  unconscious  hours  of  night, 
To  senseless  and  unlistening  ears. 

Uprose  the  sun  ;  and  every  guest, 
Uprisen,  was  soon  equipped  and  dressed 
For  journeying  home  and  city-ward  ; 
The  old  stage-coach  was  at  the  door, 
With  horses  harnessed,  long  before 
The  sunshine  reached  the  withered  sward 
Beneath  the  oaks,  whose  branches  hoar 
Murmured  :  "  Farewell  forevermore." 


"  Farewell !  "  the  portly  Landlord  cried  ; 
"  Farewell !  "  the  parting  guests  replied, 
But  little  thought  that  nevermore 
Their  feet  would  pass  that  threshold  o'er  ; 
That  nevermore  together  there 
Would  they  assemble,  free  from  care," 
To  hear  the  oaks'  mysterious  roar, 
And  breathe  the  wholesome  country  air. 


122  TALES    OF    A   WAYSIDE    INN. 

.Where  are  they  now  ?     What  lands  and  skies 
Paint  pictures  in  their  friendly  eyes  ? 
What  hope  deludes,  what  promise  cheers, 
What  pleasant  voices  fill  their  ears  ? 
Two  are  beyond  the  salt  sea  waves, 
And  three  already  in  their  graves. 
Perchance  the  living  still  may  look 
Into  the  pages  of  this  book, 
And  see  the  days  of  long  ago 
Floating  and  fleeting  to  and  fro, 
As  in  the  well-remembered  brook 
They  saw  the  inverted  landscape  gleam, 
And  their  own  faces  like  a  dream 
Look  up  upon  them  from  below. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


FLIGHT    THE    THIRD. 


FATA  MOEGANA. 

0  SWEET  illusions  of  Song, 
That  tempt  me  everywhere, 

In  the  lonely  fields,  and  the  throng 

» 

Of  the  crowded  thoroughfare ! 

1  approach,  and  ye  vanish  away, 

I  grasp  you,  and  ye  are  gone ; 
But  ever  by  night  and  by  day, 
The  melody  soundeth  on. 

As  the  weary  traveller  sees 
In  desert  or  prairie  vast, 

Blue  lakes,  overhung  with  trees, 
That  a  pleasant  shadow  cast ; 


126 


BIRDS    OF   PASSAGE. 

Fair  towns  with  turrets  high, 
And  shining  roofs  of  gold, 

That  vanish  as  he  draws  nigh, 
Like  mists  together  rolled,  — 

So  I  wander  and  wander  along, 
And  forever  before  me  gleams 

The  shining  city  of  song, 

In  the  beautiful  land  of  dreams. 

But  when  I  would  enter  the  gate 
Of  that  golden  atmosphere, 

It  is  gone,  and  I  wander  and  wait 
For  the  vision  to  reappear. 


THE  HAUNTED   CHAMBER. 

EACH  heart  has  its  haunted  chamber, 
Where  the  silent  moonlight  falls  ! 

On  the  floor  are  mysterious  footsteps, 
There  are  whispers  along  the  walls ! 

And  mine  at  times  is  haunted 

By  phantoms  of  the  Past, 
As  motionless  as  shadows 

By  the  silent  moonlight  cast. 

A  form  sits  by  the  window, 

That  is  not  seen  by  day, 
For  as  soon  as  the  dawn  approaches 

It  vanishes  away. 


128  BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 

It  sits  there  in  the  moonlight, 
Itself  as  pale  and  still, 

And  points  with  its  airy  anger 
Across  the  window-sill. 


Without,  before  the  window, 

There  stands  a  gloomy  pine, 
Whose  boughs  wave  upward  and  downward 

As  wave  these  thoughts  of  mine. 

And  underneath  its  branches 

Is  the  grave  of  a  little  child, 
Who  died  upon  life's  threshold, 

And  never  wept  nor  smiled. 

What  are  ye,  0  pallid  phantoms ! 

That  haunt  my  troubled  brain  ? 
That  vanish  wlien  day  approaches, 

And  at  night  return  again  ? 


THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER.          129 

What  are  ye,  0  pallid  phantoms ! 

But  the  statues  without  breath, 
That  stand  on  the  bridge  overarching 

The  silent  river  of  death  ? 


6* 


THE  MEETING. 

AFTER  so  long  an  absence 
At  last  we  meet  again  : 
Does  the  meeting  give  us  pleasure, 

Or  does  it  give  us  pain  ? 

• 

The  tree  of  life  has  been  shaken, 
And  but  few  of  us  linger  now, 

Like  the  Prophet's  two  or  three  berries 
In  the  top  of  the  uppermost  bough. 

We  cordially  greet  each  other 

In  the  old,  familiar  tone  ; 
And  we  think,  though  we  do  not  say  it, 

How  old  and  gray  he  is  grown  ! 


THE    MEETING.  131 

We  speak  of  a  Merry  Christmas 
And  many  a  Happy  New  Year ; 

But  each  in  his  heart  is  thinking 
Of  those  that  are  not  here. 

We  speak  of  friends  and  their  fortunes, 
And  of  what  they  did  and  said, 

Till  the  dead  alone  seem  living, 
And  the  living  alone  seem  dead. 

And  at  last  we  hardly  distinguish 
Between  the  ghosts  and  the  guests ; 

And  a  mist  and  shadow  of  sadness 
Steals  over  our  merriest  jests. 


VOX  POPULI. 

WHEN  Maz&rvan  the  Magician, 

Journeyed  westward  through  Cathay, 

Nothing  heard  he  but  the  praises 
Of  Badoura  on  his  way. 

But  the  lessening  rumor  ended 
When  he  came  to  Khaledan, 

There  the  folk  were  talking  only 
Of  Prince  Camaralzaman. 

So  it  happens  with  the  poets  : 
Every  province  hath  its  own  ; 

Camaralzaman  is  famous 
Where  Badoura  is  unknown. 


THE  CASTLE-BUILDER 

A  GENTLE  boy,  with  soft  and  silken  locks, 
A  dreamy  boy,  with  brown  and  tender  eyes. 

A  castle-builder,  with  his  wooden  blocks,. 
And  towers  that  touch  imaginary  skies.. 

A  fearless  rider  on  his  father's  knee, 
An  eager  listener  unto  stories  told 

At  the  Round  Table  of  the  nursery, 
Of  heroes  and  adventures  manifold. 

There  will  be  other  towers  for  thee  to  build  ; 

There  will  be  other  steeds  for  thee  to  ride ; 
There  will  be  other  legends,  and  all  filled 

With  greater  marvels  and  more  glorified. 


134  BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 

Build  on,  and  make  thy  castles  high  and  fair, 
Rising  and  reaching  upward  to  the  skies  ; 

Listen  to  voices  in  the  upper  air, 

Nor  lose  thy  simple  faith  in  mysteries. 


CHANGED. 

FROM  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 

Where  of  old  the  mile-stone  stood, 

• 

Now  a  stranger,  looking  down 
I  behold  the  shadowy  crown 
Of  the  dark  and  haunted  wood. 

Is  it  changed,  or  am  I  changed  ? 

A[i !  the  oaks  are  fresh  and  green, 
But  the  friends  with  whom  I  ranged 
Through  their  thickets  are  estranged 

By  the  years  that  intervene. 

Bright  as  ever  flows  the  sea, 

Bright  as  ever  shines  the  sun, 
But  alas  !  they  seem  to  me 
Not  the  sun  that  used  to  be, 
Not  the  tides  that  used  to  run. 


THE  CHALLENGE. 

I  HAVE  a  vague  remembrance 
Of  a  story,  that  is  told 

In  some  ancient  Spanish  legend 
Or  chronicle  of  old. 

* 
It  was  when  brave  King  Sanchez 

Was  before  Zamora  slain, 
And  his  great  besieging  army 
Lay  encamped  upon  the  plain. 

Don  Diego  de  Ordonez 

Sallied  forth  in  front  of  all, 

And  shouted  loud  his  challenge 
To  the  warders  on  the  wall. 


THE    CHALLENGE.  137 

All  the  people  of  -Zamora, 

Both  the  born  and  the  unborn, 

As  traitors  did  he  challenge 
With  taunting  words  of  scorn. 

The  living,  in  their  houses, 
And  in  their  graves,  the  dead ! 

And  the  waters  of  their  rivers, 

And  their  wine,  and  oil,  and  bread ! 

There  is  a  greater  army, 

That  besets  us  round  with  strife, 

A  starving,  numberless  army, 
At  all  the  gates  of  life. 

The  poverty-stricken  millions 

Who  challenge  our  wine  and  bread, 

And  impeach  us  all  as  traitors, 
Both  the  living  and  the  dead. 


138  BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 

And  whenever  I  sit  at  the  banquet, 
Where  the  feast  and  song  are  high, 

Amid  the  mirth  and  the  music 
I  can  hear  that  fearful  cry. 

And  hollow  and  haggard  faces 

Look  into  the  lighted  hall, 
And  wasted  hands  are  extended 

To  catch  the  crumbs  that  fall. 

For  within  there  is  light  and  plenty, 

And  odors  fill  the  air  ; 
But  without  there  is  cold  and  darkness, 

And  hunger  and  despair. 

And  there  in  the  camp  of  famine, 
In  wind  and  cold  and  rain, 

Christ,  the  great  Lord  of  the  army, 
Lies  dead  upon  the  plain ! 


THE  BROOK  AND   THE  WAVE. 

THE  brooklet  came  from  the  mountain, 

As  sang  the  bard  of  old, 
Running  with  feet  of  silver 

Over  the  sands  of  gold ! 

Far  away  in  the  briny  ocean 

There  rolled  a  turbulent  wave, 

% 
Now  singing  along  the  sea-beach , 

Now  howling  along  the  cave. 

And  the  brooklet  has  found  the  billow, 
Though  they  flowed  so  far  apart, 

And  has  filled  with  its  freshness  and  sweetness 
That  turbulent,  bitter  heart ! 


FKOM  THE  SPANISH   CANCIOKEROS. 

1. 

EYES  so  tristful,  eyes  so  tristful, 
Heart  so  full  of  care  and  cumber, 
I  was  lapped  in  rest  and  slumber, 
Ye  have  made  me  wakeful,  wistful ! 

In  this  life  of  labor  endless 

Who  shall  comfort  my  distresses  ? 

Querulous  my  soul  and  friendless 

In  its  sorrow  shuns  caresses. 

Ye  have  made  me,  ye  have  made  me 

Querulous  of  you,  that  care  not, 

Eyes  so  tristful,  yet  I  dare  not 

Say  to  what  ye  have  betrayed  me. 


FROM    THE    SPANISH    CANC1ONEROS.  14=1 

2. 

Some  day,  some  day, 
0  troubled  breast, 
Shalt  thou  find  rest. 

x 

If  Love  in  tliee 
To  grief  give  birth, 
Six  feet  of  earth 
Can  more  than  he  ; 
There  calm  and  free 
And  unoppresscd 
Shalt  thou  find  rest. 

The  unattained 
In  life  at  last, 
When  life  is  passed, 
Shall  all  be  gained  ; 
And  no  more  pained, 
No  more  distressed, 
Shalt  thou. find  rest. 


142  BIEDS    OF   PASSAGE. 

3. 

Come,  0  Death,  so  silent  flying 
That  unheard  thy  coming  be, 
Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 
Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 

For  thy  sure  approach  perceiving 
In  my  constancy  and  pain 
I  new  life  should  win  again, 
Thinking  that  I  am  not  living. 
So  to  me,  unconscious  lying, 
All  unknown  thy  coming  be, 
Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 
Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 

Unto  him  who  finds  thce  hateful, 
Death,  thou  art  inhuman  pain  ; 
But  to  me,  who  dying  gain, 
Life  is  but  a  task  ungrateful. 
Come,  then,  with  my  wish  complying, 


FROM  THE  SPANISH  CANCIONEROS. 

All  unheard  thy  coming  be, 
Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 
Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 

4. 

Glove  of  black  in  white  hand  bare, 
And  about  her  forehead  pale 
Wound  a  thin,  transparent  veil, 
That  doth  not  conceal  her  hair  ; 
Sovereign  attitude  and  air, 
Cheek  and  neck  alike  displayed, 
With  coquettish  charms  arrayed, 
Laughing  eyes  and  fugitive  ;- 
This  is  killing  men  that  live, 
'T  is  not  mourning  for  the  dead. 


AFTERMATH. 

WHEN  the  Summer  fields  are  mown, 
When  the  birds  are  fledged  and  flown, 

And  the  dry  leaves  strew  the  path ; 
With  the  falling  of  the  snow, 
With  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 
Once  again  the  fields  we  mow 

And  gather  in  the  aftermath. 

Not  the  sweet,  new  grass  with  flowers 
Is  this  harvesting  of  ours  ; 

Not  the  upland  clover  bloom  ; 
But  the  rowen  mixed  with  weeds, 
Tangled  tufts  from  marsh  and  meads, 
Where  the  poppy  drops  its  seeds 

In  the  silence  and  the  ffloom. 


OCL2    1940 


ftPR  22 


LD  21-QK, 


193ii 

OCf    2    I! 
JCT^tt 

;f2^ 


139 


\  .; 

Or  /  iiMi 


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